Howie

Splash on Repeat The pool is a magnet.We orbit it in shorts,feet slapping wet stone,dogs leaping like myths into blue,tails carving wakes,tennis balls flying like comets,and always retrieved. Mosquitoes come at dusk,as they always do,but no one minds too much—they are the cost of long light,of grass underfoot,of another hour stolenfrom the tyranny of bedtime. Dogs shake themselves dry,again and again,until we too are part water.We let the sun wring us out,until all that remainsis laughter,and the hum of the ceiling fan,and the soft, wet thudof a dog collapsingonto cool tile,tongue lolling,dreaming of flightand tennis balls.