A flock of birds bunches, and then makes a sudden dash

through the space over the highway.

Below are swirls of dust from the dried-out mud of the farm trucks.

I close the vents to keep it out of my car.

Are you trying to get what you need from other people, out of their scarcity?

All our dust-fields are lined up beside one another.

We dibble little empires in them.

Perhaps, if you take pinches of dust from the fields around yours, you can build a city,

impressive miniature dust-houses for the pill bugs to goggle at,

because you have forsaken the Lord.

Why do I make it sound so easy, you demand?

Where even is this spring of living water?

It’s right there, actually, but we don’t want that one.

We want abundance, but not like that.