It is August 1986.My family just moved
from Carolina, Puerto Rico to Lakeland, Florida.

It is the end of a traditional summer,
but I am ten years old. On my first day
I rush down stairs from our second floor apartment.
When the metal safety bar is chilly,
on my tender unsuspecting hands,from the alien
cold breeze pasted on my skin for the first time.

I run past the yellow parking lines
as if they are starting lines of a journey. I am fresh,
to a flock of boys perched on their bicycles,
on the raised corner of the parking lot up stream
from the dry drain.Tall trees in the background
where small furry creatures scurry up and down.

My heart excitedly pumping as I run
toward them.The flock's tongue is exotic to me.
Their eyes sparkle green and blue with pale skin.
They begin to pedal circle ling me making bird calls.
I try to understand the fleeting pitches flying
past my ears from all directions.

In the midst of the calls I catch my name called.
Now the rest of the calls seem as understandable.
My breathing slows as I listen,closer,
waiting for the next call that comes,
and goes in rhythm.However enchanting,
the calls fly without my personal understanding.

Although,my pronunciations can't mimic
their calls yet I raise both my hands making
my own call to a boy from the flock with a basketball,
signaling him for a pass.He bounces the ball,
as I catch then sharply dribble.The flock's calls grow louder,
my name migrates around the circle inching me closer to nature.




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76477-OEM-0011903-00102Luis G. Pizarro II