The grass was August yellow.
The pump was iron, like a frying pan.
The pump was old, which made it history.

Summer lasted long, which made me young.
Told how to coax water from a well,
I climbed the hill with a bucket, half-full,

slipped some water into the pump’s throat
then worked the handle up-down, up-down,
the metal screeching. Sometimes,

the wind in my ears.
Mostly, the crickets.
Mostly, the rust.

Calling water from the earth’s belly,
I squandered water to get water and got
nothing but sweat and the heat.

A way to pass time that harmed no living thing.
Not like netting butterflies, their copper
and smoke wings poisoned, pinned.

Not like hunting frogs in the pond
for pets. I wanted things. When I wanted
that water to come, it did not.