They’ve turned the heat up in October,
a few ambitious gods returning to the fire
to bake one last dessert sprinkled with acorn
crumbles for the quail—shook the oak tree
like a bear before the feed truck groaned uphill
for cows and babies hoping for relief. Top notches
bobbing in the road stir the Cooper’s Hawk to leap
and glide, a silent missile in and out of shadows.
Three rows of two stacked on edge ahead of six
flat butterflied, then capped and tied by three
more: twenty-two bales twice, engineered
for the short bed in the shower. Everyone
is on the acorns. Feral hogs and deer, first calvers,
bulls, next year’s heifers—even the saddlehorses
prune the blue oaks, woodpeckers having filled
every crack and bullet hole with a bumper crop,
ready for a hard winter. Jars of cerise pomegranate
jelly put up on the counter, it’s feeding time.
drycrikjournal 