Directly on the other side of the canal from me,
a human form,
tiny with distance,
sports a tomato red hat and
practices fiddlin
into the golden hour.
The strings stretch leagues to reach my ears
and are
doll sounds
when they arrive.
Miniature pale hands,
stark against dark clothes,
pull and saw and bow lateral
at clavicle’s height.
When the human turns away,
I catch its shaded elbow’s
hypnotized revolutions
against houses
of split pea and turquoise,
against red metal rooflines and
titanium gingerbread.
The figure fiddles prayers to the water
as its feet are pulled along the levee,
drawn
foot by footfall
toward the River.
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