She plucked tear dropped dew
like harp strings;
they clung to spider silk
woven between the drying pondweed.
The creek somber,
low,
unearthing river stones
gleaming,
begging for the sky to open
in the blazing summer sun.
Her wings wilted,
bowed in mourning with the cattails,
her grief alone not enough to refill
the home that she had built,
for upstream,
built by hands that no longer believed
in myth, or magic;
they had dammed her.