Drought

Much too early

In the Spring of 2014

Native wild bulbs were blooming in full

Unwinding from their underground Winter spools 

On the hillsides above the creek.

Along sidewalk gardens

The Daffodils 

Planted only for the pleasure of the eye,

Were plump.

Their split yellow buds deepened in color.

Reminding me of Canaries bringing a warning 

Of dangers near at hand.

Late Fall, 2013

In dry, hot California,

Peoples minds turned to water.

We dreamed of rivers and creeks.

Those impartial carriers of sustenance

Or poisons introduced

By our ancient fantasy of dominion

And the injury of merely 

Standing aside as an onlooker 

Or a newsagent 

Who broadcasts reason

While well-mannered rhetoric

Masks destruction.

Mid Winter 2013, 

Brought the record drought we all feared.

Unprecedented since 1929.

Our dreams brought us images of

Women singing for rain.

Their bodies merging with 

Alders and Salmon in the shallow creek.

We knew that our lives were 

Completely dependent

On those northwest winds lifting off the ocean

Just forty miles away.

Eventually I saw them 

Pushing and forming the hint of a cloud

Reflected in a pool along a brook

Where a fallen tree had stilled the flow of water

Creating a mirror for the sky.

Late Winter, 2014

Real rains came on the cusp of our despair.

Gradually.

Constantly.

Adding weight and expanse to the sponge of soils.

Settling into underground streams that ran joyful

Like sleeping snakes awakened from long hibernation.

Set free to play their sinuous games once again.

Anchored in service to an inexact compass.

Elastic.

Adaptable.

Unforeseeable in it's shifting.