It's her they have to catch by the corner of an eye. Another weekend and another stranger. When the river's low broken glass sharpens the sand. They launch galleons. Blast curling hulls of oak leaves.
Buckeyes fly like cannon fire from their arms.
Together they build a deep pool. Rock and branch the difference between callous and scar. One growing thick with wear, where the other waits to bleed again. They play past dinner. Past the full autumn moon rushing over them like water over the dam.