How the hydrology seeps back out of our bones,
Pouring across landscapes gone silent,
This is the way way it used to be,
Like some song playing in the corner juke,
When bars crowded early
And left well before closing.
This storm won’t give you resolution
Years will go by
Until the sun sets on a foggy bottom land
In the stalest of latest possible summers
When water is again a pastime,
As the next wind blows:
Turning heads, and raising the mutterings
Of those who still live out there.