What the Salt Flat Remembers

Here the lake withdrew its skirts centuries ago, leaving only its silverprint— the geometry of thirst pressed into crust.

You could walk for hours into the white and find yourself arriving at yourself, the horizon a rumor the light keeps changing its mind about.

In summer the heat bends upward like a psalm no one asked for, and the mirror-water comes, phantom of the water that was, ghosting its own shore.

A flamingo stands in what isn't there. Pink comma in a sentence the landscape has not yet decided how to end.

At dusk the crust goes violet, then bronze, then the color of an apology finally accepted— and somewhere beneath your feet, the old water holds its breath and does not leave.