Pretty White women with a sense of entitlement sitting on camping chairs with a cup holder asking "grab me one," while picking ticks off their legs, just above the flip-flops and below their bikini bottoms, listening to mediocre radio from Saint Louis, on a float trip in the Ozarks with their dog and their big boyfriend. His name is Brent, or Lance, or Logan. He will kick your ass, is that what you are asking for? They play washers with simple metals, their shirts off.
And the hills are lush and green as those in Spain in spring said Columbus. And from the long arms of black oaks dangle ropes. White people swing on them. Black people used to swing from them.
As Beech, Birch, Holly and Hazel sit above the river, hissing in the wind.
