At the Y


Coming from the shadowed end
her hands pierce the chlorinated water,
rotating like windmill blades,
cutting the surface with fingers outstretched
displacing hundreds of shimmering molecules that fiercely float upwards to the light.

Nearing the end of the lane her head,
having turned sideways in constant rhythm with her hands,
peeks ahead and is blinded by the sequin sun forcing itself through her colored lenses.


Heading back to the shadows.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s