At the Y

pool-press-400x400_0

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.

Touch.
Flip.
Glide.

Heading back to the shadows.

About justbrinkley

poetry, flash fiction, prompts from a southern granny who should have been a writer.
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