After the Reservoir Empties

At the bottom of the drained reservoir, shopping carts sleep like rusted antlers, a gull walks the concrete bowl as if reading a forgotten map.

By noon, wind combs dust into small republics; fennel pushes through cracks, green smoke with licorice breath, and the city leans in to listen.

Children launch paper boats on dry stone, name each one after a missing rain. Their laughter rings the walls, a bright percussion against old thirst.

When evening comes, the moon lowers a silver bucket, drawing darkness up by threads. Somewhere beneath the floor, water remembers its own address.