Days fall downhill in the west,
yellowing shadows the last sun left
to moon and stars – light melting
into golden flats, pooling in corrals.
In the east, darkness lingers in spots
stretching to the creek as first light
torches hillside trees – dawn
slower to dress before the heat.
Red-tails float between sycamores
and oaks for fuzzy-eyed, early risers
mapping a day’s harvest of seeds
connected to lines of poetry.
drycrikjournal 