If only I could paint, if only I knew calligraphy, if only I could write effortlessly. The perfect ysleta evening. This morning lovely too. Vecina's grandchildren splashing in irrigated grass at seven a.m. and all the living bones rose.
The white rabbit sits ancient on damp earth that soaked hours before in sun-water. I love the red smell of dawn at night.
Rain from years ago grew grass in the concrete canal. Carrizo stalks stand green at the dirt ditch mouth. All summers here gather and explore in small pools of water.
A stranger's disrespect turned kindness. The morning turned cement and microphoned walls. A room of young people typing for their lives. A boy wrote how he likes to help people. It is without question or hesitation that I report this. Four teenage fathers raised their hands when called upon. The L.A. riots came to mind when someone mentioned home. He was about two years old at the time. Memory is a brush of x-ray light, a child popping pyrotechnic sounds in the absence of fire. Evening is a morning of young people with hope in their eyes.
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