The summer that the world turned thirteen I was on my Grandpa's farm; I was all over it, and it on me. Rough-coated seeds from tall blown grass were in my hair, down my t-shirt, between my toes - with enough mud and dust for them to sprout in. Long brown hairs were caught, on apple-laden branches, on fallen moss-covered logs, on the boards of the abandoned hayloft.
One July morning I woke before all sound. Warm, sweet air lay silent on my skin as I walked from the house all the way up the hill to where the fields ended and the woods reclaimed the earth.
The fresh cotton of my dress bunched in my hands. As I lifted it the air leaped up to lick my skin. Bare feet straddled in the fine warm dust I felt the air work soft fingers over my belly, over my hips and thighs, through the curling hair between my legs.
Then I lifted the dress from my shoulders and tossed it away on the ground.
With my arms held wide I stood nothing between me and my summer. I had it all: leaf-shadows stroked my breasts, and the air that warmed my shoulders felt cool on my nipples, they tightened. The fingers of the breeze were soft stroking the warm pink lips-within-lips I did not have a name for yet. The scent of birch and grass and dust and the pines and blackberries and thistles and salal soaked into my skin, the skin of my lips and my breasts, my belly and soft inner thighs, the hair under my arms and the hair between my legs, and sank deep, deep into the ever-darker-pink canyon that I still had never touched, that summer touched for me that dawn.