Meg and the Sun

The sun got tangled in the branches of an old Hawthorne. Daybreak hung down in grey strips, like a torn parachute among the knuckled finger-bones of the grasping tree. Meg, the younger sister of Bill, wanted to shin-up and dislodge it. we thought there was a good chance we boys would catch a glimpse of her knickers, so we agreed to give her a leg-up. Her skinny limbs, skirt hiked up, snaking through the spiky twigs until she was about half-way to the sun. Black branches shook and thorns rattled, then they loosened their grip and the sun rose. Meg whooped and almost fell. We others grinned sheepishly; Bill looked at us as if we were all crazy.