Early mornings were made for children.

Something about being young and the newness of day–dew and fresh starts and first breaths. There's a stretch of limbs, turned over white sheets, a blink. Sun splits eyes and then they're open.

I become an adventurer at 6AM when the world is barely awake.

A boy comes through my garden, hides behind a vine riddled fence and tells me so. He's got his hair out in puffs and his teeth gleaming, and the air of adventure spurring in his chest, making it rise.

He says that he has a surprise for me. And I, don't have much belongings, or get much surprises. So I get dressed in four minutes. My shorts are green and shirt stripped white, and hat is red.

His face yellow with all of morning in his cheeks.

I leave my father a note, I grab some dry cereal and a water bottle. I feed the cat that, it scowls at me, still hungry. I feed it again.

The back door in front of the garden is left open, I'll return, I always come back home.

The sun isn't ready yet it's getting dressed behind a curtain of dark purple-orange cloud. But when it rises it'll be one of those misty mornings where the grass that meets your ankle leaves wet trails on your skin and your white shoes turn moist and green stained.

My father and I are one of the few that live on the towns belly, the cliffs it's breasts, the middle the bustle of town. I watch the lake breathe, slowly, and roll over the slope of the towns stomach

while we walk the wet back paths behind my garden. It connects the community. And there, where the path turns field to forest and thick bush and dark trees sits a girl.

She comes from out of the shadow and this is when the sun decides it ready.

The first thing I notice is her skin, through the twinkling light of early sun and tree, like baby cloud and slapped pink. Far, far lighter than mine.

Hair stringy pasta and to her shoulder, toasted and freckled.

I take two steps back. My friend runs to greet her.

She's alright he says. Not like them, she's good. His hand slips into hers and I think I understand it in the way his eyes mimic star.

I think she doesn't in the way her eyes watch mine.

This girl got brightness in her teeth. I think I got a lemon rind in mine. This girl speaks like tuck horns and sirens. I speak and my tongue turns sour in my mouth. This girl, she walks like the ground was made for her. And I skim round flowers too pretty to touch. She's too pretty to touch.

She comes from the cottage side of town closer to the lake.

She reminds me that we are adventurers as we walk through past a ripped tree but I know I'm more captive than anything. I'm bug bitten up and down my arms. I swell red like cherry cake batter in ovens.

And she's glistening cause it's our secret. Things aren't meant to be known here.

She sings the kids of summer kids, don't tell your mother kids.

Running through raw hills and dry roads on the outskirts of town. Through the forest short cuts and the cliffs above the lake.

We spend an hour laying on the ground watching the wind bounce through the dark summer trees, the dark summer leaves.

Light gets in my eye when I say,

"we aren't supposed to be here."

Him, her and me. And all of our adventures. All of us together. Everything is big is small.

Every backpack bounces on thin shoulders. Eyes squinted searching horizons. We're making geography into something new. We're speaking the names of unnamed landmarks and pouring shades of summer over its heads like

The White water well, her water pale, hot necks dulled under a cold tap. He's a doctor that carries four bandaid boxes for white skin.

And I see the difference as he lays one over my scraped knee.

She tells me she loves me as we sit underneath the shade of tree. Where no one can hear or see and I hope the kids of summer will last for eternity.