Miners built the earthen dam that blocks
this intermittent stream
just below where two small gullies come together.
Turtles bask on floating logs along the edge.
Footprints of deer etch deeply in the mud
as the level slowly recedes beneath summer’s heat.
By mid-June the pond and streams are dry.
Roses bloom at the dam’s base where the last
water pools.
Late one warm, spring afternoon
I swim its narrowing length,
crossing a film of pollen,
body parting golden grains
that stick to my skin
like the memory of sunlight slanting
through oaks and pines.
I turn to float on my back,
glowing flecks dappling breasts and belly
like dust from a gold miner’s dream.
Overhead, leaves spin against a gentian sky.
Water is still treasured in these dry,
Northern California mountains and
sometimes guns are drawn over its intended use.