The Hills
We lean against the porch and watch the clouds at dusk, Maxfield Parrish blues veined in coral, rim lit in a gauzy crown of yellow.
The porch swing slows, then stops, and I can still smell the fresh cut grass on your arms.
The hills are burning, you say.
The Ocean
I’m tacking away from the bay. The smile thins on my sister's face.
I loosen my grip on the line and the sail snaps open, filled by hard thrusts of air.
You know I can’t swim, she says.
She is older than me and has black eyelashes, and the boys at the club stop talking when she walks by.
Did you know, I ask her, your body is 98 percent water? And I race for the open water.
The Garden
The cat will not drink from a bowl of easy water. He sidles through the house, ears pricked to challenge.
I watch him out the patio door as he tongues a high strand of jasmine heavy with droplets from the aqua slide.
My husband slips his arms around my waist, and nuzzles my neck.