Past the library, three men wrestle a fire hydrant, us all watching porch-side, till something better passes, the train or a neighbor-boy telling: in winter when he fell below the ice, the others used a shotgun to break it. On the curb, the children dance for the semi-truck’s horn. In the post office, my tongue made delicate, held the Green heavier than its River. Like the goat tied to the sidewalk, the bleating not bloodied, but arriving. When I come back, when I bring you back, I will say, “here,” and “there,” my arms widened in the bed of the silvered truck. Permanently waving, for fear of missing someone. Spring again, everyone climbs out all at once, even the canal made new.