Walking this morning to the wishing well,

Now that the rains have come,

Amal Amal is flowing.

The ducks have returned,

As have I,

Though I was there too

When it was dry as stone, dirt and bone.

Running dry.

A man on the corner,

talks to himself, keeping his own company.

Do you have a place to stay? Food?

Me in my pajamas, though you might not know,

slippers wet with dew,

Empty pockets

Heart full of prayers.

He under the bridge,

with others camped along the stream.

The bees have once again occupied the old sycamore trees.

A woman runs to her car, “I forgot my badge,” she says,

I imagine she works at the hospital around the corner.

Running, running.

Two men in masks, one of floral fabric, made by hands,

exit their construction vehicle.

We greet each other with our eyes.

I walk home,

On empty and quiet streets,

Full of our shared predicament -

picking flowers along the way, from the overgrown yards of my neighbors.

Just as I have always done.

Though as a small child,

my parents had me return each blossom, one by one,

to teach me, I presume,

about not taking without asking.

Who owns the flowers?

I wonder.

And the street corner,

and under the bridge,

and the sycamore trees - leaves soft like the tiny hands of some distant relative, whispered on the wind?