They say there’s a giant squid in the reservoir
that if you could climb the fence
you could stick your hand
into the Bright Water
and feel his slimy body swimming by yours.

And there’s a giant bone in the park
that kids say is the squid’s skeleton.
But if you were to brush away the wood chips
you’d see a placard and commemoration.
We’d slide down the soft curves
and land on our knees,
letting the damp soak through our jeans.

When it rained
we would hide in trees
and feel the cold bark underneath our toes.
We’d laugh so loud that the sky
would be scared of us; our umbrella laughter.

On snowy days we’d take cardboard
for sleds
and leave our scarves at home.
They say when the reservoir freezes over,
the squid still lives
but only if you throw rocks
over the fence and break holes
in the white ice
for him to breathe through.

. .