The Drought

It’s all dried up. The pond is gone, the ducklings are gone. I stand in a bed of shriveled dark weeds and the sharp bones of bygone creatures. How long can I mourn? When does mourning become pathetic, or pointless? What did they mean to me? I made them matter because I wanted to see myself reflected in them. But I was already present there, and by focusing on finding my likeness, I robbed them of theirs. Perhaps that’s why they have disappeared.

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