the afternoon light curdles over a house built out of dried river mud
and on the porch an iron stove sits cold, its door chained shut from the outside
inside the oven, three porcelain teacups are filled to the brim with wet ash
waiting for a visitor whose feet have turned to stone at the bottom of the lane
down in the dry well behind the barn, a brass pendulum swings without an engine
scraping a groove into the damp clay wall, deeper with every passing minute
holding onto a time that finished years ago, forcing the house into a slow deliberate lean
at five o’clock a dry wind comes down from the hills carrying the smell of copper
and the pendulum strikes the side of the well with the sound of a cracked bell
in the orchard, three dead apple trees drop all their bark at once
exposing pale white wood beneath, carved with lines like the palms of human hands
a rusted iron plow standing in the weeds begins to sweat red rust in the heat
its heavy blade sinking an inch deeper into the parched dirt
bleeding onto the threshold of a field that will never be turned again
at the edge of the tree line a feral dog pauses in the briars
its ribs showing sharp and clear beneath a dull coat
it sniffs the stale breeze for the scent of salt or grease
then turns back into the shade of the deep woods without making a sound
knowing there is no dish waiting on any back porch
no hand coming out to stroke the fur behind its ears
only the long endless search for water in a dry creek bed
and the quiet acceptance of an empty horizon
by dusk the pendulum snaps under the weight of what it refused to drop
and instantly the kitchen earth splits open from end to end
a heavy column of white salt rises up through the dirt like a pale tree
shattering the teacups in the stove and lifting the tin roof off its frame
the walls of the mud house collapse inward under their own heavy memory
leaving only the column of salt standing tall where the stove used to be
while out in the woods, the dog keeps walking through the dark
leaving the dead fields to dissolve into the quiet earth
—lyra moon (a surveyor once told me that salt flats form where water tried to stay too long)
july 31, 2026