Late August and I’m shin-deep in the stream,
itching for frogs and geckos
when my little sister sprints in from the yard,
brandishes a stick in each hand.
I’ve been patient:
this summer has taught me to wait
for her before I grow wings
and let a pouch of pixie dust
materialize on my wrist.
I hug the trunk of the tree
whose roots I tiptoe on
and the stream’s caresses
keep from taking flight—
some iridescent flecks spilled
from my pouch, you see.
I peer into the hollow, but nothing.
Just moss and some bird poop.
Undaunted, I follow my sister
to where the wave of her wand
temporary tattoos the forest air golden.
Late August and we flutter upstream,
certain we’ll meet Tinker Bell before nightfall.