Unearthed after a long rain, worms stretch
like wet band-aids across our yard. The dog
takes her last swim before the pool is drained.
Even as the water recedes, our father skims
the surface with a tattered net, catches leaves
from the neighbor’s trees. Here, where we
practiced back strokes, flipped off the board,
blessed each other with blue water, we witness
the gentle recession of liquid and light.
It’s evening now, and a single bulb glows
like a moon just below the diving board.
Tomorrow we will live elsewhere. Tonight we

pass water down the line in buckets.
From hand to hand it travels. Kristin Collier is a poet and essayist living in Chicago where she teaches high school English. Her most recent essay “Becoming Acquainted with Rocks” was published in Barnstorm Literary Journal. She holds an undergraduate degree in English from the University of Michigan and a graduate degree in Education from Lehman College in New York City.