When the Santa Fe River ran again, it took nearly a week to wash away all the footprints in its sandy bed. By this time the cottonwoods were greening into their impossible lime, the color of those tight tank tops the high school girls wear even when it’s cold. Up by the Los Alamos labs, where I commute to keep those atoms safely splitting for America, the trees are dying of drought and bark beetle. So I notice the green in the Santa Fe
Sunlight dripped through the liquidambar trees caged in large planters around the cafe patio, etching star-shaped leaf-shadows on the white tabletops. The small expanse of red brick formed an island of old-world security lapped by suburban concrete, the trees
The gun in Isaiah’s hand looks fake. He smiles, ranged dramatically across the floor in front of the whiteboard, weight on his forward leg like Tybalt in the swordfight scene. His naked weapon is out. We all think
The water is warm, I lie. Will feel warm. In a minute. Another step in. Skin stutters to adjust. Counting. One, two, three, four. Another step. Water to my chest. Arms out of the water. Ridiculous. Water temp is 84. Not cold. Hands in the water. Adjusting. Water to arm pits. Get it over with. One, two, three, four. Dunk.