The river road
strode unshod,
dustily to the ford.
August’s heat
lay close to the ground.
Dust imps,
too tired to be full-fledged devils,
cast their wings aside
and rested in the grass.
Our rope-swing broke years ago,
so we sloshed to limpid pools,
longing for relief,
waiting for storm breaks,
promised, yet unfulfilled.
The river was low,
and the ford, clearly visible,
led us to the other side,
to earnest shade,
beneath wilting trees,
as we yearned for rain.
INSTANT NOODLES 