Sand in the well. Windmill turning
a dry creak on its wheel.
The water witcher walks the length
and breadth of the yard,
palms up as if in prayer.
Between the barn and house, the stick
jerks down hard
and straight, the muscles in his arms
pulled tight by the tug of rivers underground.
The air blown so light, it can’t hold.
and bloated winding up in the corn.
whing whing whing
Now that we hate the sun,
we’re learning to go
longings we didn’t know
the shadow this land casts on us,
its thirst and swale.