One of these days I will come back,
step down upon the peak of Sulphur Ridge
and let my feet slide upon the dry wild oats,
inhale their ripeness on my two-mile glide
to the creek and nap among the dark green
sycamores, be unseen in caves of shade.
Or should it be a rare November day
after a rain when it is gray and still, mist
clinging to the bare oaks on damp hills,
earthy perfume of wet dry grass in decay
that will bring seed to feed, that vital
beginning to every season annually.
Or Belle Point in the spring when I had you
captured in the pickup to look at cattle,
so proud of my colored cows standing
on the slope for big, long-eared calves.
The air is full of magic then towards the end
of March. We fell in love like April fools.
One of these days I will come back
like a rattlesnake, as the eyes and ears
of Tihpiknit waiting, deep in his dark den—
or a Canyon Wren calling, calling, calling
every wonder back to me. One of these days
I will come back for a poet’s guarantee.
drycrikjournal 