Winter always holds in the cold and wet—

Water pools where old roots were pulled—

Running through drains fast dripping under floors.

Children get stuck running tractor donuts—

Man sleeps sticky with worry—

Artifact cans of a true Osage Man

settles in fingertips and swells.

First memory, an alchemy, a mix.

If he is a water boy and if I am dirt,

together we can make…

Water alone can’t make the sound

of a catfish, but a catfish has no sound

without water.

Water that holds nitrous runoff—

Water injected with salty brine—

Water running through lead pipes—

Water that shines with oil.

He says, “Oil drilling is really water mining.”

This is a dusty place.

MAH-sho-dse dust carried by

the wind finds its home

and nothing hides from dust—

until rainfall and days where earth

never dries, the paths are muddy—

and so we get fat from sitting,

surrounded by crabgrass instead

of tallgrass—we become crabs in a bucket,

crawling over the other crabs

to get out of the mud.