In her mom’s car
heading north
on a Friday,

watching the blue-tinted cotton
drift beyond the sky,
seeing evidence of its heavier sister
sweeping rain over the holdings,
pierced by the sun above.

Spots bamboo seized
from the farmer,
and my old backyard–
Which the construction crew
and my uncle
didn't bother cleaning
before abandoning.

The mole
on the side
of her right pointer finger
as she lets
wind play
with her own hand.