The morning I pull up at the springs,
bring forth the empty gallons ripe
for summer filling,

the only people present are women
bearing all sizes of containers from
a quick glug to a water cooler’s

worth of Bitney Springs’ best.
Of course, it’s the women, I think,
the women at the well

collecting water for the thirsty
at home. I look for a man asking
one of them for a drink,

but I see no one but women like me.
We gather as strangers in a common
task at this font of living water

tapped nearly a century ago by
the generous couple for whom
this road is named. As I open each

empty vessel, position it under
one of three faucets, watch it fill,
a form of grace fills me, too.

And then, a truck arrives;
a man steps out with a single
small bottle. “Time to fill up!”

he jokes. We smile, and I
step aside—“here you go”—
so the endlessly running tap

that has filled what needs
filling for me becomes
his. He nods his thanks,

extends his arm, which
dampens with splashes
that quickly overflow

his container. Then,
eyes closed, he dips his
head back, drinks deeply,

replenishing, I hope,
quenching the profound
thirst of his soul.