She leaned against the wall
sun beating down
sweat on her brow,
legs aquiver.

No doubt about it
a long hard fall
a catastrophe ’tis true,
but she’d landed on her feet.

She counted in her head
one . . .
two . . .
ah. . . . just three.

She arched her back
preened a bit
and catwalked down the lane.
Six more to go.

Includes July’s word prompt from my granddaughter, “catastrophe.”