Dowser's Prayer

I am religiousthe way small desert townsare named after water;eleven or twenty worn buildings,brown hills, dust.I know this land was oncea paleolake. I can remember itfoggy and moss-grown,mastodon and ground sloth drinkingin the gray dawnof time, but that baptismhas long since dried.Now even my sweat wicks awaybefore it reaches my lips,snatched away in a sandy gust.Thirsty, I see watereverywhere I look—here in Sand Washor Indian Wellsor Cave Creek—written in seashellsembedded eye-levelin a limestone cliff,in turgid cactus, virgalike a gray smudge,mesquite roots deepas the water table,afternoon cumulonimbus.I draw it from dry stalkslike the kangaroo rator Moses.Mornings, I lick dew from my own skin.And when white-hot afternoonglare becomes unbearable, whenflash flood seems more dreamthan threat,I rest in the shadeand drink the canyonswith my eyes: turbid stoneflowing thickly from one waveinto another.