How many times have I listened to the rain, each blessing
fresher than the last refrain, each drop upon this thirsty dirt
absorbed – or with the thunderous clap of torrents wild at once,
reclaim this earth? There is no Sabbath here beneath the sun,
nor moon disguised amid the clouds aglow unless the storms
that claim this arid space above alluvium and silt have kept
our rivers rising over banks. O’ Raven’s Cry, Kaweah – Tule,
Kern and the Holy Kings that once fed an inland lake for ships
steamed-up from the San Joaquin, now find no pool to float
an autumn leaf – not since the floods be dammed to save us all
for air conditioned shelters built upon this fertile earth exchanged
for family farms to repay both domestic and the foreign banks.
An Eden turned, this San Joaquin – like the Tigris and Euphrates
flow tied tightly to a fate we know, yet we still pray for growth
as if the quince juice never dripped from Eve or Adam’s lips.
To the gentle sound of showers before another storm, I write
as if each drop, a harbinger of hope, enough to change the course
of retreating rivers long-controlled by those who also govern us.
I’ve been sitting on this one for awhile with the understanding that we really can’t go back, that the San Joaquin Valley will continue to evolve towards more urbanization, that the utilization of water will also move away from agriculture – that nothing stays the same.
drycrikjournal 