Robert Bogan Austin, Texas, USA
The lake evaporates
heaving its silted depths to light,
Small craft ride lopsided and capsized
in crackled mud.
Ex-fish nests pock the clay like plates
shattered and scrapped
among tin cans, tires and tackle
sunk in the muck.
Forecasters chart the sky's fever
with distant precision,
divining no end to the lethal heat,
but local folk,
spotting the drop, all stop and gauge
a parched fate.
Reflected stumps lengthen twofold
in the mirror surface.
The heron departs. Bizarre beetles
emerge with thirst.
Buds blow, fall off or go yellow,.
Four o'clocks fry.
Old-timers who should know maintain
that one good rain
could fill the lake back up again.
The soul can say
the wind inside has been so dry
and rain as rare.
When night smolders and mental creatures
roast in holes
or fly in search of kinder zones,
the soul can tell of
sudden storms that break and fill
the deepest pool.
email@example.com © 2004 Robert Bogan