DRY the natives mow their lawns under a stone the last breath of a beetle hides its moisture have the cows lost their minds? wandering off the pasture through trees with curled brittle leaves seeking lands green with new laws for cows without masters in bed the wrinkles accumulate old faces and speak back to the night painfully an overturned cup barely remembers its liquid a mushroom sags in the middle a gauze of spiderweb anchors on the feet of the mullein near irrational asters that flower in the drought those walking ahead of us footsore are looking for their cows and registering earnest promises for the return of regular days of storms and pens with latches that hold a spark in the night flies up through its firefly phase its jet engine phase its phase of being a dry star in a wet-colored sky with adoring citizens their children cattle and produce circling below in the ever-giving land thankful and modest and pious