Basil-laced strawberries swim in two quarts of water,
replacing yesterday’s battered, bloated limes with grace.
Tonight, they too, will be discarded like a pair of
sweaty socks, surrendering in defeat.

Skaters, daters, bikers, and hikers
weave freely in and out of one another, stuffing
the last of the capsizing light into their hungry souls,
before Hrímfaxi’s hoary mane hovers above the horizon.