What Things Are Made Of

Never Too Late

21 Never Too Late Doves flute in peeling eucalyptus trees. Rain pit-pit-pits off lance-point leaves, and pings into expanding bull’s-eyes on Descanso Pond. Redwings ride bucking tules at the water’s edge. Beside them, still as a decoy, a mallard rests—emerald pate, brass chest, pewter sides. Another paddles by, leaned forward as if pulled on a string. Roses twitch their yellow heads. A cottontail pogos away as mossbacked cooters periscope the pond’s scum-crust. Purple irises bend as if to drink when the wind gusts. A school of bluegills shadow me. The baking soda submarine I lost in 1963 surfaces: full-sized, blowing like a whale. The crew flash V for Victory. ...