Boys will be boys

 
on a late afternoon,
and school is out for summer.
 
I watch—unseen—three preteen boys,
laughing as they slide down, on their bony backsides,
algae-and-frog-spawn-slick slate rock
lining the bed of Taughannock Creek.
 
They are young but old enough
to care what others think,
but not yet old enough
to have unlearned this.
 
Pubescent boys uninhibited
as the cascading waterfall-
ing, as the turkey vultures fly-
ing in the infinite, clear cerulean sky
bleached by an incandescent sun.
 
After one more go each,
the three boys scamper
up the embankment
towards the road
and out of sight
to bike home;
 
sons slightly
more pigmented in sopping
gym shorts and graphic tees,
returning to (hopefully)
unscolding
mothers, fathers,
guardians, families.