sunbeams

The sun beats down on my bare, arched back. My feet are beginning to get too hot. My knees are up against my chest. Drops of what must be mostly chlorine are beading off my hair, which has been bleached blonde by the sun. The sun, that eternal cleanser and burner, never sleeping (at least not on all parts of the earth at once), seems to take joy in heating my skin. I cast my gaze up from the crack in the cement at the sound of my name called. The other kids are having a diving contest on the deep end. I smile, and, forgetting the colony of ants, evade the sun just a little longer and dive back into the chlorine.