Here the Rio Grande is dry
a hollow bone without the marrow
a sleeping body without blood
waiting
patient as the ceaseless wind
blowing tumbleweeds
into the dry rushes on its banks.
They say it runs with catfish in the spring
who mysteriously are resurrected
by the flood of melting snow,
the spring release
from reservoirs
upstream.
Downstream
we wander on the dry bed
waiting
for the life to come.
