There would be water. There would always be water.
She was growing to expect it; feeling presumptuous, but faith is that; presuming to be caught, to be held, for thirst to meet water.
When it glistens, flashing light to her eye, she turns and follows to where the rays spark; a leaf cupping a small pool. Everything feels fragile, tenuous.
Leaf tilted, hands barely touching skimming the edges, water slipping down the green and into her mouth, down her throat. When will she stop weeping at these gifts?
She faces again the sandy dunes. Did you imagine her in a verdant place; a mossy wood? No.
Her feet collapse the sand under them, each step is a pulling against the earth.
She presumes to continue, she presumes there would be water in the desert. There are memories of easier paths, and rich-laden tables, and companions and words that tasted like chocolate on the tongue and words that made her grow taller inside but less-seeing.
Heat waves obscure the horizon, and all she knows are two things:
There would be water.