Today, the world is not ending.

I don’t mind the mosquito bites 
on my ankles, at least I made it 
outside. Left my headphones home

almost-on-purpose this time,
deciding to listen to the birds
instead, finding not birds 

but 12-year-olds with lacrosse sticks— 
running, ruddy-cheeked and happy 
to be just where they are,

and I am just across the street, 
ankle-deep in grass surely filled 
with mosquitos and they 

are eating orange slices. 
Flashing smiles full of rinds 
at their Mothers, making music 

with screeching voices, and high-fiving 
with sticky hands and I watch them 
not worrying, if the bites

will leave scars this time, not worrying
how long it will be until the sun sets,
just waiting to watch it happen.