Fieldwork

Another day of heat-
strangers continue to wobble
across the horizon, bringing drought
when instead we should have deluge.

I steep snow-lichen in water I
drew from a lake
which has since gone dry.

At sea few understood me,
as though I induced a sickness
that deafened, then healed.

As before, I predict lies,
to be pushed from the boat
time and time again.

Nevertheless, I expect
to get by while their widowers·
seek refuge with their provident

families; perhaps a storm will pile fish
at their doors when the red tide rises,
perhaps they will not follow as we move,

moon into moon, under another sky.