The Silt's Recitation

The creekbed is a cracked map, a geometry of thirst baked into clay. Where stones once wore the polish of current, now only the heat hums its dry, white song.

Beneath the surface, the ghosts of minnows flicker in the mind of the mud. Deep roots reach for a silver pulse, remembering the weight of the rain, the heavy, rhythmic percussion of June.

Willows lean over the emptiness, their silver leaves like unlit matches. Waiting for the sky to bruise, for the first cool drop to shatter this long, brittle silence of the dust.