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.