1937
Sand in the well. Windmill turning
a dry creak on its wheel.
The water witcher walks the length
and breadth of the yard,
loosely holding
his Wünschelrute,
palms up as if in prayer.
Wasser Wasser
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.
water
The air blown so light, it can’t hold.
Something jar-eyed
and bloated winding up in the corn.
whing whing whing
Now that we hate the sun,
we’re learning to go
deep,
to plumb
longings we didn’t know
we had,
the shadow this land casts on us,
its thirst and swale.