Watermark

From a microlight, the Owens River,

cut and siphoned to an aqueduct:

a corridor through banks of trees,

into scuffed desert dunes, mountains

scaling to the right, to the left dry veins

in the valley, saline and pink, the water

channeled slowly through scatch grass,

under dirt tracks and fences, twenty miles,

thirty — black line turning silver in midday sun,

dipping beneath the roar of Route 395

into the shade of the alkaline hills.

It zigzags past farms, arcs around quarries,

swipes the bar code of a glinting new town,

the alien discs of pivot irrigation

growing sunflowers, roses, and corn.

Then follows the highway, just after Big Pine,

rejoins the river north of Fish Springs,

is diverted again, south of the reservoir — 

And does water care, if it’s river

or aqueduct? Its vessel curved concrete,

but the same constant flow, gunneling south,

hugging the contours of eastern Sierra,

past Independence, the airport,

the golf course, along the right hand of Owens’

dry lake bed, red swirling dust clouds kept down

by sprinklers. From up in the air

the twin Haiwee Reservoir is knuckle

and knee joint where the line disappears — 

becomes pipeline and conduit

under the desert, punching for groundwater,

surfacing riveted over Mojave,

two hundred miles on from its native cradle,

gray zombie spring tracing through forest

to Santa Clarita, the treatment plant:

the last reserve and loud cascades

above the lights and life of Los Angeles.