Forecasts vary, computer models change:
dry rain of fiery leaves, stirred and torn
from the honey locust tree, clouds waves
in all shades of gray—a dark flotilla
peeks over the ridge for ships run aground
against the Sierras leaking cargo low
as Blue Ridge trimmed with white ribbon.
We sip whiskey, replay the week and squeal
like children on each gust, tip our glasses
to the work got done. To herds of virgins
readied for the Wagyu bulls, gentle ladies
churning under a full moon. To the mothers
with first calves driven up canyon, now
grazing the north slopes as it tries to rain.
To the four we couldn’t find by day:
awakened by their bawling for babies,
night lit by the moon, they awaited
dawn at the gate while we slept easily.
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