The squirrel who digs in the flower bed and scurries
up the wooden steps almost to the sliding glass door
might be my mother or father.
My mother’s metal sifter making small clouds
of flour, those battered shallow pans, an apron
tied haphazardly around her waist.
My father finding the trowel for burying
the faceted coal chunk I’d pocketed
from the black pile toppling onto Second Street.
And what remains
the distance in the rush over falls.