Clasping my hands behind my back, 
I survey the sights from the kitchen window 
and breathe deeply the wind that docks 
from the mountain tops tucked in clouds. 
All is fair, if one counts birds and lemon trees
against the straying plastic trash kicked up 
by flattened car tires and pulsing hydrants. 
The neighbor boys clatter skateboards 
against the stretched asphalt, heat dust 
wavering between ground and sky. 
Crisped linen shirts wiggle freely
on laundry lines, and I count that as good, too. 

The bread cools next to me on the countertop 
and quietly, I close the window.

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