As Mourning Doves Persist

Rising from the damp ditch of short sleep acequia lady picks up her traveling mandolin to accompany boom box bass on wheels passing on the wet street. Bus comes by. Push brake hiss at the rigid stop sign corner. Wistful 'o' in the mouth of the bronze mother in the artist's yard floats as if a piano in her esophagus is escaping.

Entire summer days, we run slick pavement. Hurl ourselves from a low board into cool water for shiny pennies tossed. Underwater tea parties and handstands. Skinny legs in the air ready to ignite. At night from a back bedroom window, I spy on the swimming pool. Light left on illuminates  the moving rectangle of blue. Hole my father dug to hold us there. My sister and brother asleep in the same room. Outside, bats like dark kites dare the night.