They were the kind of girls
who smiled into the face of the Sun,
closed eyes against its flaring touch,
the tip feathers of the giant swan
just brushing their napes.

I find their skirts
in pieces on the ground, red and yellow,
torn from their sides as they ran
from the Gods’ hot glance,
tried underbrush for camouflage.

In gathering wind and dark
I look up from my rake.
Someone dashes past: half-clad,
still in the chase, her fleet life
all before her, almost out of reach.

copyright Jean Monahan 2013

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