April 26

The drylands don’t attract me;

I grew up under dark evergreens

and over water—sheets of it,

spreading like silver foil to the

horizon. From the air it looked

solid and even when my father

put his small plane down

on it, the floats kept us from

disappearing under the shining

mantle. Flat, like sand, but not

empty, not that kind of place

where souls and thirsts are exposed.