Robert Bogan           Austin, Texas, USA

  The lake evaporates
heaving its silted depths to light,
  whispering secrets.

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.     © 2004  Robert Bogan