mónica teresa ortiz's Supper Time

Supper Time

on the Great Plains just south of wildfires

blue surgical masks
thrive
in fields
wind coughs

we count
years down
til the aquifer
depletes
we stop tracking variants

though surprise
late summer rain
flushes grass
hundreds of frogs
skin
blood

dried
on pavement pinched between rubber caliche
squished organs
the ones that survive
drift across the ditch
only to end up
dangling
from the egret’s mouth
who gossip in the pastures vacated by the cattle
gathered under an August sun

I never saw any egrets here
before the plague would we also eat
what little remains