Winter hills, new grass gone brown between
short fuzz of last year’s feed hasn’t changed
day after a two-inch rain, but we believe we see
a tinge of green, ridge tops cattle-dotted,
holding moisture as our minds search knowing
what the color of these hills, will and ought to be—
like cows and calves leaving bottoms in the storm,
forgetting hay, ground turned soft between their toes—
climbing to where grass comes first, all believing
they can taste the green that comes from a night rain.
drycrikjournal 