We look for rocks in the old dry channel—
smooth red rocks with round white moons
and lumpy ones with blue-ish dots,
concave rocks that might hold water
and rocks that might be fairy chairs.
We choose them carefully—
as if there were so much at stake—
and carry our bounty in our skirts
to a flat spot at the river’s edge
and build an open home with them
where only our imaginations live—
so much at stake, we choose our stones
very, very carefully.