Awaiting daylight, a loose script plays out
between slowing-moving heifers, curious
and confused by so much visiting,
a load of hay for the next female graduates
and a pasture full of bull dreams, early
postures for winter release, bellows
at the feeder while a pump fills a tank,
with the well-worn routines in between—
an hour and a half of darkness and
a good storm of words away. This is not
for the young—way too tame to corral
the blood, the mind, the heart pacing
the gate to a panorama of possibility,
another plane beyond this mundane plod
through days and seasons changing,
our cycles of grass and calves, promises
sure as thick-bodied sycamores cling
to the creek bank, or like cobbles caged
in their tangled roots. Awaiting daylight,
our script unfurls again into the infinite
and moonless black, awaiting rain.
drycrikjournal 