At the public beach all afternoon, nothing unusual to report;
kids screaming into the waves, mothers shouting out warnings.
Americana has sprawled itself all over another Sunday.
When I see an African woman roll out her towel on the white sand.
Her orange Dashiki and yellow head-band flutter
like low-flying kites in the wind off the lake.
She sits herself down and waves
to her children already in the water. Meanwhile,
a three-year-old blonde beauty in mini-bikini
with shovel and bucket sits herself within inches of the woman
and begins the serious business of piling sand.
The woman regards the child—smiles
and in one fluid instinctual motion
reaches out to straighten the child’s bathing suit,
brushes off a bit of sand from the girl’s shoulder,
leans back and looks out at her own children
treading and splashing. The girl does not react.
She does not register the gesture at all, but continues
to shovel and fill. And why not?
Here there is sand and water
and the beach is teeming with mothers.