As the murky horizon gives way
to a watercolor sky out the windshield,
me riding shotgun, Terri wheeling us
into what’s become her spot in
the empty parking lot.

We might have the big pool all to
ourselves this morning, Terri says,
for our 45-minute 6 a.m. slot in
Lanes #2 and #3.

And we pretty much do, as Terri jogs up
Lane 3, and I breaststroke my way down
Lane 2, while outside the big windows
today blooms into the color of a new
duckling.

Two early mornings ago from my spot
in the pool I watched the sky flush
soft pink, much like my cheeks when,
as a freshman in high school, the tall boy
I had a crush on slowly turned to look
over his shoulder at me four rows
behind him on the bus.

Now goggled in the pool, I scan my
my brain cells trying to retrieve that
boy’s name, which floats away on
the small wake stirred up by my
flutter-kicking feet. Later, in
the shower, his name continues
to elude me, though I can make out
the fuzzy contours of his young face
as Terri and I head out to breakfast
before 8 a.m.

It’s still not my time of day, but oh,
look at that soft light making landfall
on the tawny mountains ringing
this desert valley. I can hear my
beloved far away at home chuckling.
Who are you, and what have you
done with Janis?

And then it comes to me:
His name was Mitch. Is Mitch.
I hope he’s still out in the world,
rising into the day, as safe
and warm and loved as I so
swimmingly am.

Sun City Shadow HIlls pool, dawn / Photo: Jan Haag