The early light of summer, the
soothing coo of mourning doves
before day breaks over the Divide
with fireballs of flame cascading
down ridges to blind us all—that
long moment before the body stirs
outside, distant ravens squawking,
up early to survey its flesh, last night’s
leftovers on the road. Even longing
complaints of calves having spent
their first night without mothers
fade on a cool, down-canyon draft,
a quiet stillness but for the doves’
gentle awakening. Time to take
inventory—plan for another day.
drycrikjournal 