In dry times, waterholes far between
and hillsides bare, we gather and learn
to get along—wild and domestic,
prey and predator, bent to the same bowl.
No call now for zealots or evangelists—
our near-future hangs in the heavens,
in the dark clouds, in the generosity
of the gods, not well-fed demagogues
posturing to the thirsty. In dry times,
we don’t have to look too far to find
someone to blame ahead of time
for our demise—but who has the energy?
drycrikjournal 