over the dry pond,
old bowl of earth.
We walk over the fine bones of fish
buried in powdered silt
beside hooks.
This summer the turtle is gone,
pupil in the eye we called water
that watched us grow dry.
The trees are all that’s left of water.
Beneath them the crickets
are sawing their legs,
dust for rosin.
Turn up a stone and they keep silent.
On the dark trunks of trees
shells of bronze insects
are open at the back.
We are like the trees,
they have been in this place so long
their yellow hearts could open.
The insects walk over our warm skin.
They think we are the earth.