I am greedy for more, but there is no use mourning for the land lost under the water, the only evidence of it a thin rim of red dirt like an eye's red rim. No use thinking of the green that would continue down these hills into the forgotten shape of the ravine, the poppies that will not grow there, the trees that are only ghosts of trees now, floating softened and pale somewhere below a surface grown as smooth as skin with forgetfulness. It is early spring and the water is high. The earthen wall of the dam is well-engineered and will not give way. But the whole of the reservoir is pushing behind it, and I am less uneasy on high ground, deep in the green, watching this hawk, close now, raise his wings and settle again, watching the flock of ducks on the water, watching specks of white that must be gulls far in the distance, tiny as flecks of ash, watching the clouds and the sun and the faint crescent of an early moon move across the sky, watching the water ripple and smooth and ripple, the wind like a hand across its surface.
Corn grows tall.
Peaches turn red. On clear days, mountains loom on both horizons. The world becomes a waiting bowl. Late afternoon, oleanders and eucalyptus turn silver. Crows perch on miles and miles of telephone wire, quiet, medieval statuary welcoming in the dusk.