Frank Carey, Fort Union Cistern, 2011
It’s a dry season. My love, that limestone cistern can’t store enough to see us through—there’s a hairline crack, and it’s seeping. Frogs pluck songs from mud near the crack, soft plectrum chirps, singing “Cheer-up, cheer-up,” but I just can’t. I’ve watched the sun beat them down into deep burrows, turn what’s moist into a brittle tomb. Even snakes are leaving, exits marked by acrid, cursive trails. It’s a dry season, and it won’t end—the only thing left is to walk through scrubland, to the edge of the sea.