a dove waits for a patrol of whirling hawks to pass overhead,
from the nest he flies, north, to scratch in the dirt to find his chicks food,
helicopters weedwack his gray head feathers as he flies across the river.

his ground is burnt sienna, desert hard, cracked below, his feet,
the seed owner’s ground is Columbian, American Roast, a little caramel,
and didn’t know anything about doves watering hemp in Brazoria County:
“Where Texas began” from a county of doves.

but I heard water the other day,
distant, but a roaring deluge,
I don’t know how to swim!
as the water rushes in,
deep in this dark cistern

to the thigh–to the nose,
I can’t touch, my neck extends,
forced to turn to float–
splashing–slashing the water
to grasp the slick brick
where the missing mortar fell,
so long ago–

rising, rising,
I’m slashing, slashing,
as the well fills,
I spill out upon the muddy ground,
the clouds clear,
a shaft of light,
blinds me.
Will I burn?