Mid-May, the hillside cut beside the house
leaks a stream, fractured granite patient,
a steep tumble of broken stones frozen

in clay, hanging for a hundred yards to
the top of the ridge where water springs
from hydraulic pressure into fissures

of magma cooled too fast to crack and
connect the Kaweahs, loaded with snow.
How long have they waited, what pebble

slipped to stem full flow, how wet the year
they last moved? Dismissed wonders pale
upon the whole, an army of ants controlled

by queens we serve. They are sexy and
delightful, stirring dreams of magic
and luxury come to power, all the flags

and colored bunting of Camelot sans
chivalry. This perfect world at war
with itself will never be the same.

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