A post, a fence – little evidence
of generations grazing steep
chemise and fractured granite,
snow flats and sage, in that other
realm of wild rules – the raven rests
to compose his next poem, his next
creative exercise to badger and pester
the nature of whatever happens by.
Perhaps, feed himself at the same time.
No saintly aspirations, nothing
memorized – he’ll stalk a newborn
calf by dancing to nursery rhymes,
looking to pluck out an eye. Quick
study, he reads motion and mind
and mimics us all, chortling in flight.
drycrikjournal 
So good, John…
It’s wonderful to see the great flood of words all this rainfall (and time in the house) have released!
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Flood it has become, Teresa, voracious habit to be fed before daylight… before saddling horses or facing the phone. I think it’s part of the slow pace these bones go now, another kind of urgency only blank paper can appease – a fun game, really, trying to reach for something common within us all. Thanks.
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