Only now, does she allow entry
up Ridenhour as dawn glints
off goosenecks through bare oaks
below, rumbling of aluminum –
saddle horses brace the rutted cut
after weeks of rain, month of sun
on the steep, south slope – small
poppies first to rise in welcome
to her refurbished hall, narrow
draw with water pooled to fall
off boulders beneath nearly-naked
buckeyes posed: green feathers
upon gray fingertips. We drink
deeply and hold our breath,
climbing higher to brand calves.
drycrikjournal 