After awhile, everything seems
symbolic, our natures entwined
with the wild and unattended,
we wait upon the whims of weather
like devoted children grown wrinkled
squinting at ridgelines, measuring
the leaves of trees against memory.
O’ the love making of crows
atop the skeleton of the Live Oak
that once shaded the native girls,
women come to heal the days
and nights together, escaping men
upon this hollow hill under hooves
of horses still—since I was a boy—
seems the perfect stage for silhouettes
at dusk, lovers not returned since
their last lusty performance
before stacking sticks in limbs
somewhere up the draw, hidden
in the Blue Oaks, feathering
new life beneath a tender green.
Perception blurs beyond communities
and all the near totems
that have drawn us together in time.
drycrikjournal 