A pendulum fan of water. 18 piss streams of life, over weed and sod, stone and wood. Water arcs, fake-raining my garden. It's a green sodden roof to a mile of darkness. Soil and clay, rock and root, strata of worms and mystery, decomposition and history. The water seeps down with a relentless blind curiosity. Into every pore and tunnel, down past the bottles, the dead seeds, the picnic crumbs of 1940 and the ravaged triceratops. What pushes up? Old roots, hacked tree trunks, the things left unfinished, jagged anger nails unspoken. I lay claim to this microacre of green riot, its stories and sediments, its broken symmetry and earthen honesty. I'll water the depths, let it soak down and in. Burrow and flood, quench and drown, make treasure for new roots to bind. I'll caretake and tend up here, until it's my time to be welcomed, incorporated, under there.