We are trying to define drought so we look it up in the dictionary. We accidentally look up drown instead.
Where we are caught it’s enough to just be in the night. Enough to take our tender feet on down to the sea. Enough to trace the blue brim of shore beyond the overgrown median blooming orange.
What some of us forget to remember in our consciousness. What some of us can converse about but only in the rain. What some of us collect as ideas, as truths.
A body can be parched as a root, perched as a hawk. Can watch in silence as the smoke curls off the hills. We look over the land, exhausted. We look over the living as if we are static. We look as if we are mute.
This is sometimes how it goes. Some years instead of rain we get a sky full of ash. We get heat drawing a line of dust around the perimeter of a lake.
We speak towards proper weather. Towards knowing the horizon as well as our heft, our hips. We speak towards when we are gone.
See, some of us are trying to catch no thing in our soft hands. Some of us have deserts for bodies. Some of us find sand in our navels. Some of us are uncrossable. Some of us are buried by belief.
If more of us could fall to our knees. If we could look our despair in its eyes.
What else but to let our limbs or boughs open. What else but to let one another touch the moss.