At the well

A spigot runs-- water white-- a rush, a spray in buckets white, in the pails of men, women and children who dwell within plywood and tin, houses made for men, though fragile naked structures that bend in wind, yield to cold, succumb to the heat of hot summer days, though winter also has its haze. And yet, life ebbs and flows around the well, around the spigot where spouts life, where there is no strife, only the dull ring of a new bucket to fill, children playing, and the spray from the well of the water.