Fever Maw Em Walling We are so thirsty— looking up at a cloudless sky. The weather apps and meteorologists may lie; the dry, cracked earth does not. Swooping plovers attacked me a few weeks ago, my peaceful walk interrupted by their defensive cries and dives. A nest tucked away by the stream. Food. Water. Family. Home. In the same cradle. I walked to the same spot yesterday, and the birds were gone— the stream fizzled as quickly as a dream. The grass browned, cracking beneath my footsteps. Food. Water. Family. Home. Dissipated. The hike to a magnificent, cascading waterfall was silent. We thought we walked too far, distracted by the bird calls that translated to distress. We encountered rocks instead of water. The disappointment matched those of the snakes, lizards, birds, and marsupials craving nothing more than to drink. My footsteps were heavy as I climbed among the rocks, across the dead waterfall—a sacred space now filled with spiders weaving spells between the gaping cracks. They hoped to catch a dream because reality dried up months ago .
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