You come from the hill by the lake. It’s dotted with wooden huts that overlook the water. On long Saturdays, campers sit on towels stretched below the summer sun—barefooted, knees bent. Or toss frisbees, rest on the rise and fall of a kindred’s chest, seek shade. Come nightfall, heads tilt toward every star in a midsummer sky. …
Dina L. Relles 