Mending the Dam

Through fields networked by hidden
streams, we trundle wheelbarrows
out to the dam, unroll thick plastic
along one side, pinion it with logs.
Earlier, the wind had pressed
like a cold hand into our backs;
now, beyond heat or cold we move,
gathering and placing stones;
our lungs seem filled with light
as well as air. Energy comes
to us from earth, and the slate
and marble we prise from it:
in each hollow, a worm sidles
with exposure, winds into the dark.
When the task is done, three ducks
fly in to ruffle the shallow water,
climb, unperturbed, the slippery
shroud. Now all is set for winter.
Muddied and pocked with rain,
this pool will grow until spring.
Then small plants will be fed from it
and, later, in summer drought, the trees;
all streams will be dry, with the creek,
at most, damp stony earth…
Four women walk back through
the fields, their feet
imprinting the chill ground,
their voices, the silver air.