July Sunday, first light cool
through the screen door.
Dogs asleep, the same
black line of ridgetops
falls from a lavender sky,
thin underbelly of the moon
in space exposed beneath
a bright morning star.
Kubota cowboy, crossing
the dry creek bed
in last month’s
depressed tracks,
cobbles black and flat
to dump yesterday’s lawn
clippings to the bulls,
chewed already fine.
I own the road
in dawn’s shadow, sunlight
burning slowly like a fire
down the canyon’s east slope.
Pump water, load hay
before the sun hits the barn.
Downstream from there,
two young bicyclists
peddle easily
in identically sleek
racing outfits
smile in and out of shadows
of first light streaking
through sycamores
spread down the channel.
The morning is hazy
along the periphery, but
the world is changing,
even on Dry Creek.
drycrikjournal 