Slow days

When the sun never sleeps
and the days are sweet and long,
I lay my body down in the river.
I open my eyes underwater
and see the stained-glass sky,
fragmented by ripples
and bubbles slipped from my throat.
Small orange stones press
against the soles of my feet,
but it's ok. They're already calloused.
When I go home,
I won't put my earbuds back in.
As much as I love losing myself
in melodies and strains,
they make my head throb and sputter.
The river is already a song.
I splash water onto the rock,
and it lands like messy splatter paint.
It sprinkles me, too,
and I laugh out loud.
I sit on the rock,
and I let the minnows nip at my toes,
peeling away what used to be
and leaving me with easy whirlpools
soothing summers
tall grasses
rhythmic peepers
stained-glass suns
and long, slow days.