Black cows fall out of Buckeye shade
with fat calves looking to play – like
visiting the relatives, screen door slamming
after umpteen kids as mama tries
to reinforce discipline, establish
who will investigate us first.
The steep hills leak and pool between
outcrops of granite, cracked and crumbling
speckled bones dressed with lichen
upon the worn and weathered – hidden
snow melt bogs of clay beneath
spring grass contemplating deep tracks.
Slow to show upon the green,
Pretty Faces and scant splotches
of poppies, scattered Blue Dicks,
Fiddleneck and sparse Snowdrops.
Spring has yet to buzz and bloom,
to hum the first hymns of heaven.
There is no yearning, no crying,
no needs among delighted souls,
except for salt, like waiting for
fifty-pound blocks of hard candy
to sculpt with tongues in weeks to come –
there is no distress among the natives.
drycrikjournal 