In the scratchy grass, I slept until the sun
burned my forehead and thumped my eyelids.
I dreamed that sugar skulls lined up on vendors’ countertops
for Dia de los Muertos, winked at me, stuck out their red jelly tongues.
Stones held the light underwater, only allowed it to surface
when evening came calling for it.
Minute life—spiders, small beetles—marooned,
dog paddled on the water’s surface (so to speak),
waited for a lazy bit of bark or clump of grass
to allow board and passage.
In the scratchy grass, I woke and saw that the clouds were
gray and nasty—a promulgation I could not ignore.
The end of the world was at hand—my hand.
The dead were rising and it was time to choose sides.
Paper leaves found me, whirled ‘round and rested finally
as the land grew dark and unpromising.
I rose to go home (home being the safety of the city,
the fallen angels, the concrete stars I adored).
I rose and, full of warnings, said goodbye to the creek,
what would be left of the creek after the world ended.