Our yellow house

perched at the corner of Spring and Pear,

a bright finch in our tangled nest of a yard.

Out back, a stubby hill tumbled

then splashed

into the spring on Spring Street.

Cool, shielded by crumbling stone

magical

burbling.

I was 8-years-old,

with 50 cents for two goldfish,

carried home in a plastic bag.

Sloshing tank water, green-tinged,

I set them free.

The Black Moor, eyes bulging,

flowed like ink from his plastic prison,

leaving his old life behind.

The other, curled head toward fanned tail,

a mandarin slice

reluctant.

Cupping my hand in sagging plastic,

I held the bright orange of that fish,

nudged him toward his new home.

Over time, he quadrupled in size,

grew to fit his world,

sunrise in water.