I
the neighborhood children, through knitted paws
squeal, shriek, and scream their playful calls
as their voluminous silhouettes cascade upon
the ivy-covered, fissure-riddled walls
icy fingers, concealing eyes of a mind
that ponders peeking, but then decides
against when visions of gifts under tree
present the pleasant memories of sweet surprise
cleverly hidden beneath an old canoe
an older boy has tips on girls for sale
despite the dusk and cold cheeks flushed
the younger cannot keep concealed a blush
wet, rhythmic smacks of shoes on grass
the dry, quick breaths of the pursued
"tag, you're it" a muffled giggle, the snap of a stick
such are the sounds of youth on the move