Fresh Water

The clay pot stares at me
its mouth gaping open
as I drown it in the stream
filling it to the brim
I hear a clunking sound
and lift the now heavy pot
stepping back up the bank
and out into the trees
the undergrowth giving way to open sand
with not but a few coconuts to catch my feet
and the branches of the trees
rising up and up leading
to the tops of the high palms
In front of me I can hear the tide
as it washes in and over itself
Smell the crisp sea salt
dried upon the sand under my feet
and just before the treeline meets the ocean
is the short lean to with its shade
where I leave my fresh water and lie down to rest