Library of Rain in a Dry Year

At dusk the reservoir shows its ribs, white arcades of mineral and moon. Children skate where carp once wrote silver grammar, their laughter striking sparks from the empty basin.

On the dam, wind turns pages in the warning signs. A heron stands in the spillway's throat, patient as a tuning fork, listening for a note the clouds forgot.

We carry jars to the public tap at midnight, each lid ringing like a small bell. From balconies, basil breathes and leans toward radios where old songs teach us how to wait.

Then one dawn: a bruise of thunder in the west, first drop, second, a full percussion. Dust lifts its face and drinks. The city learns its own name in water.