bushy overgrowth, verdant images
of my father’s recollection of the four of them,
shirtless, hot,
hungry,
hunkered in the field, on a mission
to not get caught.
the stealing only lasts a second
in his retelling,
and then absconsion to the creekside, 
sharp rock, split in two,
a watermelon so red, and ripe,
warm from the summer sun.
shared, ejecting black seeds
covered in spit onto the bladed carpet,
waiting to take root

tell me, though,
towards what sun did those vines grow?