Oasis

The air crawls out of the cave like an army of ants looking for sugar, or something like that, and by midnight turns into water.

We're in the Mojave Desert in late August where anything can happen.

Palm trees have blacked out, the light breezes that were so seductive earlier have gone to a nunnery, and the plastic wrapping around your fortune cookie is hot and sticky and impossible to unwrap.

If there was a scale, we'd each weigh 2 lbs. and be worth a nickel.

A flying saucer makes its descent into Palm Springs Intl. Airport.

Solid spaces in front of us turn into water
like the writing of Robert Creeley who insisted in a small but consistent manner on looking at things long enough until they turned to water, or something like that.

We swim and swim and talk and talk, pausing in our backstrokes to look up at the stars.