Unwatered

The city sent a postcard with a warning,

so the sprinklers have stayed choked and dry.

The park across the street is a paper bag

that somebody crumpled up and threw away.

I saw a sparrow landing in a patch of dirt

where a puddle used to be after the rain.

It flapped its wings in the gray, fine dust,

trying to wash itself in a memory of water.

When I walked across the lawn to the store,

the grass didn't bend under my boots.

It snapped like glass, a million tiny breaks,

a sound like a fire that hasn't started yet.