Drought

There are no miracles in the Columbia Basin, no dew
to sing at daybreak.

The earth can no longer wash dirt from its face—
apologies for all the stones I've thrown

in water—thunder clouds so dry
we can’t hear the moon, our fingertips

touch the silver edges of night
like the lingering taste of peppermint,

or the frog song at Eagle Creek trailer court,
where Lonnie pushed me into the water

when I turned from his kiss. It was long ago.
I fell into the creek and the frogs fell silent.

In the desert it’s still winter, a stretch of fine snow
plays out along the interstate. In the median,

copper wire insulated, twisted to tumbleweed,
upheaval rolling hard against the cold. Someone

finger-paints horseshoes across the sky.
We wear our Jesus socks but nothing changes.

Amethyst geodes sharpen our tongues,
we bleed sonnets, throw cowbells on railroad tracks

to warn the wild horses away. The sound of their hooves
echoes through our tomorrows, and makes us believe

in sequined cowboy hats and falling stars, in canyons that hold
the world's reserve for the rest of our lives.