I rode a bus in the desert and the woman beside me had plastic bags on her lap and must in her coat. My face turned toward the window taking it in––the pleasure of being a passenger, carried. It was a drought year. We passed the scar of a long-gone lake and then the gash of a former stream and she gave a little huff, rustling the bags. Yep, she said, me too. I was too tired to ask, so only nodded. Then I looked out the window again, wondering about the water before it was gone, the lives it must have held until it couldn’t anymore before it gave itself up, back to sky.
Lakebeds
And the life of water.