After the Fourth of July Floods, Walking the Dog

He drinks
	as he walks,
pink tongue
	lapping
with each
	black footstep
through narrow
	streams.
I think of girls
	washed away,
other mothers
	beneath
the Texas sky.
	Later I will get
my daughter
	from the place
where she sings
	Hebrew songs
in the pool
	for three weeks
every summer.
	She says
I don’t know
	what it’s like
to be the only
	Jewish girl
at school.
	I say,
Tell me.
	I know
there is a sheriff
	parked outside
the camp gate
	24/7,
which might protect
	her
from the type of
	danger
that turns away
	from a badge
or a gun.
	At the end
of our street
	brown eyes
look back at me
	as if to ask.
My eyes say
	yes,
this water
	is safe.