International Geographic
The tawny boys run through the woods and streets
Wherever they are raised, in rural realms
Of citrus Florida, where sunshine meets
Them under orange grove trees or under elms
In England—everywhere. They build their dykes
Or dams, their toy structures from their minds.
They race along their small town lanes on bikes,
A whizz of sun struck reds and blues. Kids’ kinds
Of mischief roil up and cruel laughs
Fill afternoons, but briefly, like the sparks
Of their intelligence. Baboons, giraffes,
And bare-breast women, menace, waves with sharks,
These all appear in magazines that gloss
Their later dreams as brothers turn and toss.
Rural South with our Citrus. Nice.
Steve, I never think to look at comments here. Sorry.