I passed the vacant lot today
where they're building a brand-new Waffle House.
I stopped and looked it over, the ground turned up and red,
the grasses gone, the shape of the land raked over carelessly.
I remembered going through that lot in rain and sun,
to and from my way to lunch,
cars rushing by on the nearby road
while I traveled at the speed of walk.
I knew that lot in all seasons,
winter's chill and summer's grasshoppers,
autumn's leaves and spring's new wildflowers.
Sandpipers nested there, though I never found the nest,
never looked for it;
but more than once I was not alone on my path,
tiny feet darting along beside or ahead of me,
shy but unafraid: I meant them no harm.
Now the sand is gone, and the pipers,
and all those who drive by will never know,
will never see, would not care to remember:
this was once a vacant lot
where tiny lives became a part of mine.