They think, see you carefully and read
your simple poetry as if an open window
to your mind. You must offer honesty,
kindly, find your rhythm on a hillside,
find grace and patience where there is
no hiding your intent so far away
from the corrals. This morning’s page:
steep—Blue Oaks thick on a north slope
slick and rocky where the grass has held
and drawn them, peppered dots of cows
and calves appear and disappear within
a raft of trees where they should be,
despite your sort of wets and drys,
despite the pens and alleys you try
to write around—they are content.
drycrikjournal 