From the kitchen window, I see the flash of silver
on the back of the waving grasses
at the edge of the drive,
and the deep green shadows of the windbreak cottonwoods
they planted when this house was a farm.
I see what was, or might have been true:
Our passage across that summer.
I remember that hot night, the cherries in the blue bowl,
the mayflies around the streetlight,
the thump of the bass drum from the marching band,
rehearsing five blocks over.
I have finished the dishes, turned off the kitchen light.
I can hear your transitor radio
On the back porch.
“High fly ball,” I hear you repeat,
“Over the fence, into the night.”