The proof of the great drought is seen
in the small creek that runs through
the city park where now only smooth
round rocks lay where once
water flowed freely and
ducks floated easily
and fish swam just out of reach
of small boys with large hooks
at the end of the their father’s poles.
All is hard and dry now.
The mica in the river stones
glint in the morning sun
that recently delivered so many days
of hundred degree heat and
birthed baby fires that skittered
across the griddle of the city
and teased the edges of the yellow
ripening fields to bloom into black skies.
This morning is warm with a jacket-shedding
and a thirsty delta breeze that
prowls up the big valley from the south
where the fog lies lazily along coastal shores.
Men and women stride purposefully
down paths as large lawn-mowing tractors
rumble across fields like dinosaurs
patrolling their kingdom and leaving behind
the sweet scent of grass and gasoline.
Dragonflies, big as hummingbirds,
wings spinning like small propellers,
glide in spirals around the couple courting
under the dark tree who laugh and share
exuberant kisses that are heard across the lawn
where maintenance workers in bright orange vests
push wheelbarrows heaped with compost
as this person looks up into the white sun
and remembers rain.