Summer months in the dry, dust
stirred by tiny birds, by the invisible
kiss of a breeze’s caress—so far
to go for water. Cows will lie down
and die when its gone, trusting spirits
and disassembled bones left for years
near waterholes to remind of empty eyes
gathered to wait in the shade for a drink—
nightmares that lurk on the edge of sleep,
ever ready, July through September.
So far to go, a day and a night at a time,
they take no holiday until it rains.
drycrikjournal 