THE GROUNDWATER Tim Kahl The groundwater moves to live within the succulents. The recent downpour greets the green beans. Oranges and lemons invite the pumps to transfer gallons until they relinquish control of their engineered genes. The marchers welcome the involuntary dousing. They carry their bottles past the storm drains into cleanup battles, into the church of the cisterns, into the steaming foot baths. They are marching past the maze of dams, pipes, and canals. The satellite data suggests a high stakes goose chase for the urban runoff. Come moisten the homes, my little droplets. Come to the edge of the field with your dampness. Come, come, in the name of the snap peas. Come in the name of the kumquats. Forgive the manners of the grasses who hunker so low to the ground and use up all their consultations, refusing to wash out to the sea. Come and bring with you your medical attention. The marchers' legs are cramping; their flow is hardening. They all are taking Coumadin. Their ears are stopping. They need to hear every drop counts.
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