Lake is a misnomer in Modoc country.
Goose, Summer, Silver, just names
and as barren as deserts.
The outback, they call it,
where the threat of rain
is their oldest fossil
and the fable we landed in
In the dark, slick as snakes,
with sulfur on our skin,
we ran blindly for shelter,
the wind, a dragon at our backs.
Somewhere in the morphology of the night
we found Faith, wine and dice
and a gratitude that curled inside us like a teardrop
we’d save for the next pilgrimage.