Looking away from the fire:
irons at rest among coals
in a pocket fallen forward
from limb wood licked,
consumed by colored veils
of dancing flames
between calves, hoots
and loops, stretched,
rolled and released—
we see they find their way
without us, despite us,
mothers waiting at the gate.
Near hawks atop leafless oaks
watch as if we weren’t here, bored
with the horse and human intrusion,
from the lifeless trucks and trailers
claiming space for the moment,
shadowing ground and grass—
scattered like discarded toys.
Knotted trunk, creek bank sycamore,
has lost several centuries of limbs
and seen more in its own failed reach,
enduring droughts and floods,
than in our short stretch of time.
This pattern we can’t ignore—this
constant readjustment of elements
that tests the best of human natures.
drycrikjournal 