North to Natoma
Daylike, we pass by empty
lots of orchard land, the topsoil kept
down more by pacing feet than water.
Acres marked by long-hardened ruts
from truck tires through dried-up mud
the last rain left. It’s been months,
and the fields are good for nothing
but night talks. When we can mistake
the moths for raindrops, the cold for damp,
pretending under our boot prints that worms
might be crawling in the grayness,
yes! that there is something there,
straining through the droughted earth.
