in the desert a natural puddle forms from the rare rain, and all the living know this represents the ability to survive until the next one.
birds will bathe in the winter morning
as the sun breaks through the clouds
that are blown by dry wind and sky.
this momentary oasis can be nestled in the shadow of some ancient carved out cliff,
rocks that remember they were once submerged.
some weird root, clawing and clasping across the craggy land
inches slowly forward to sip.
in the end it will be the leftover stuff
from everything that had drank and touched and played,
perhaps down close, as close as possible, one could hear the last drop
evaporate away.
