Awakened before three, I am relieved
to rejoin my dream gone-on without me.
Tracking the blackness, I feel my way
to where I was, what I can’t seem to be
awake—with all of man’s accomplishments.
There is no script, we write as we go—
scout ahead and fill-in the details
we wish to savor most, but careful
not to attract too many bees—private
showings we may choose to share
of what we remember. Dark hawk on glide
across the canyon surveys me and my
intrusion to this place hidden where I lay
in the saddle as a boy, waiting for deer
driven-up the steep draw and bare hillside
for a shot. Slick and Clarence on either side,
trigger to the heavy British .303 never-squeezed,
unnecessary. I still can’t find the little buck among
the does so far away bounding. But yes, it was
exciting, as good a place as any to begin again.
drycrikjournal 