Have I forgotten my lines on stage,
so engrossed in parts that others play?
So sad, so enraged, have I forgotten
the earth that serves us everything?
Beyond my sight I see the places
cattle congregate and call, not for feed
but for my being, silently—not for
company, but for the feeling:
doing well beneath the hawk’s
wing, the brown eagle’s glide
above blue oak and manzanita
clearings. I hear a calling.
drycrikjournal 