I stop walking and watch the kids run through it

I stop walking and watch the kids run through it,

their bodies smaller than the arc of water,

their laughter higher than the sound the nozzle makes

when it clicks and rotates.

The grass is going dark.

That's what I notice first—

the brown-to-green shift,

the dry earth drinking,

the pattern of the spray

leaving its mark in the yard

like a clock hand

telling time

in moisture.

One of them looks at me,

this kid with water streaming down his face,

and I don't know what he sees—

a woman stopped on the sidewalk,

a woman watching,

a woman on the wrong side

of the fence.

I am.

On the wrong side.

The sprinkler completes its rotation,

and I'm still here,

not moving,

not running through anything,

not young enough to feel that water

as a gift

instead of a memory

of when I was.

The nozzle clicks again.

The arc begins its return.

The grass darkens.

I start walking.