On a Thursday in mid-July
my sister and I are stuck
on opposite teams of Capture the Flag.
I’m charging through Red Team territory
and turn to see
her gaining; she leaps
the last three feet and slaps the flag
from my hand. Sweat and smiles,
she pulls my shirt
toward the Red Team jail,
but when we look down
the hill, we both see it
three hundred years ago,
without roads or buildings.
Only trees and water.
A rope of smoke draws
the western border
where Natick should be.
We lie down
while both our teams keep running
around us, contemplate a Wellesley
without trains or coffee shops.
My sister says it’s time to go home
here. Or at least walk around