Here's a poem that first appeared in my thesis and subsequently in The White Pelican Review. Pasted here for your encouragement if it happens to be close to home.
Ratio in Drought
The reservoir recedes. The shore
Is fishing lures and mussel shells.
In sorghum muck the heron stalks
A glimmering of fish. She knees
Along her way in snapshots while
Her crook of neck uncoils to meet
The spot where she’ll be next.
With waders hitched above his gut,
A thin man floats a feathered fly
Into a cranny dimpled
By invisible mosquitoes.
A twelve-deep stack of notices
At home, a tumor in his young
Son’s head, he comes to cast and jig,
To swallow the fist in his throat.
A bass erupts through gathered froth
And pauses, still-life for a blink,
Then flops, darts for waters cool
Beneath the jutting bluffs. The man
Is happy for the miss, the chance
To try again. The bird ascends.
A bloated, tallow-bellied cloud
Slugs in the distance—steady, slow.