How I was Lying in a Dry Creek Bed
  Christien Gholson

The dream recedes
into a city of rising
stones. Before
the rusted-wheel song
of finch hatchlings falls
like sand into the cracks,
a black and white striped
creature slides
from a red ant-hill, looks
both ways, crosses
the creek. No wind,
but leaves still flip, mimic
sun on water. I lick my lips,
taste straw. What is not
is all there is. A rabbit slips
into and out of existence. Coyote
scat. Flag at half-mast. Time
for that other city to turn on
the tap, wash its face. Water
tumbles out, over the hands. Come
from nowhere. A current,
beneath my ear.