Green rising into a white sky—
granite out crops and trees
pushing upwards, like yesterday
beneath clouds clinging after
rain. The earth is clean
and damp. Birds nod, wake
and wonder, waiting to fly.
Nothing else will sell today.
Gods and sermons pale
downstream, murmuring churches
between canals of muddy water,
beside parking lots of cars,
here and there, the steeples
reaching as high as they can.
The coyote stretches, tastes
the air, pisses and returns
to his warm bed hollowed
in the rocks and waits
for the first scent or sound
of life. Everybody waiting,
trying not to spoil the day.
drycrikjournal 