Avoid the rockpiles, rotten logs and tall grass
where springs seep small drinks of water—
keep your eyes peeled where little people
wait their turns and congregate to serve
their hungers. Like the rooted Live Oak,
leaving is not an option, I have no desire
to see the world, to brave the claustrophobe,
squeeze up the chute to fly off to any better
business or pleasure than what surrounds me:
all the heavy heads of first-calf heifers,
dark eyes questioning. Among such trust,
our small following knows where we live.
drycrikjournal 
Lovely poem, John. And yes, if I lived where you do, I’d never want to leave either.
LikeLike
p.s. I really enjoy your posts and read them every day – the prose as well as the poems. They are always a good way to start my day, though they tend to make me a little homesick.
LikeLike
Thanks so much Kim, I’m pleased this blog works for you. The poems start my day as well, most meant to be a positive and fresh beginning before the work routine, before the local and global dramatics, drawing from a natural world that seems untarnished by it all–a place to go to start over. Last evening, Robbin & I watched a pair of flycatchers trying to harass a crow, perched in a dead Live Oak, to fly. After finally succeeding, and they in determined pursuit, Robbin noted that someone else might be inspired to cut the 150+ year-old tree down to clean-up the horse pasture, not realizing that the old snag now had a new purpose, a brand new life atop this native healing site, beyond our entertainment. Hopefully this blog continues to offer that kind of perspective for you.
LikeLike
I love this!
LikeLike