A promise from forgotten days of rain,
bold whites and blues and greens
flush the flesh clean as a hawk’s cry
in spring. When we were children
here, we walked within our dreams
of endless rivers crashing and cascading
from the Sierra snowpack into the Valley
ditches and furrows, row upon row
to fill the cornucopia of the world.
But we have pumped the ground dry.
Is this a harbinger of better times, or
have the gods returned to say goodbye?