the dads guard fires and raw meats wearing mid-life jeans, pockets holding the outline of cell phones, wallets, remembering good old times that were not quite stolen but tucked aside to make room for little people - “thieves” is too strong a word, requires the tongue to push against the backside of teeth.
sun-lotioned mothers circle near coiled citronella, the smell of mosquito summers burnt out at the end, calling out early preventions to avoid later regrets, ignored by the imps that take to the trees leaving behind laughter and the hint of popped bubblegum.
grandpas sit, grumpy heads gathered together like a handful of dwindling walnuts hiding greasy creases under hard wrinkled skulls, peering at birding guides, colors faded, water-wrinkled edges surrounding the cover of a proud boreal chickadee with belly of brush-stroked greige, the heat edging flesh tones closer to ash.
Jenny Wong is a writer, traveler, and occasional business analyst. She resides in the foothills of Alberta, Canada and Tweets @jenwithwords. She is currently attempting to create a poetry collection about locations and regularly visit her local boxing studio. Recent publications include Claw & Blossom, Atlas & Alice, Whale Road Review, Lost Balloon, and FlashFlood on the 2020 International Flash Fiction Day UK.