by Elissa Gordon
I stare at the flowers until they blur, the sky until it tilts toward me, the clouds until they drift back again. I close my eyes and make a wish: One last drink, please. Prone on the ground, I am leaning over that Vermont stream. I cup my hands, bring the sweet water to my lips. The leaves stir, the weeping willow sways against me. Swallows fly and dip closer, the water laps at my feet, and I take it all.