He left the scrubland
And climbing the rise of a hill
That rose like a belly of soft grass
He stood up on a ridge that ran in a semi-circle
To the west of a sheltered hollow.
Below, a brown pool of water
Lay like a dark lens
That captured every reflection
In its still depths.
To the east, across the water,
He saw the arms of a small dry creek
Branching into the tributaries of Poseidon’s trident.
He traced its paths along the stone
To where they fell, lost among the rocks.
Then, before the rain came, a ripple crossed
The surface of the lens and a head, perhaps a turtle,
Appeared above the water.
It was then that he remembered and now,
Looking at the creature’s head
Again he saw the god,
Thick hair and heavy brows
Rising from the silent pool.