Younglings

by Renwick Berchild

Younglings run up and down the upstairs hallway
causing my mugs and tea cups set atop my fridge to tremble.
Momentary images race through my consciousness as I dream them
with halos of holly and twigs, crowns of leaves,
long sticks and action figures and a stuffed pony
being whirled over a little imp’s head like a helicopter. I hear
high shrieking, a boy’s bellowed calling, and the tumbling
of their bodies down the west stairwell. The door beneath my window
explodes, the cavalcade proceeding to the sidewalk, yelping and
prancing like wolves. They are dressed in jeans, a violet dress,
an outback hat that is bouncing like a salmon
attempting to jump the waterfall, and they are all jumping, wielding
mittens and scarves and untied boots they had not the patience to put on,
racing for the land far away from this apartment building,
that I at times am still a lucky tourist of, but no longer
a citizen. They are the citizens of that land now, them brave ones.

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