they looked out over the earth,
and the north wind felt like the truth.
-William Stafford (“Our People”)
We ride under the circling killdeer
cry, almost always looking upstream first—
to the north of where we are
and what comes from the sky.
Beneath the current, a rock and cobble
bottom that horses can’t always see—
they feel their way, stub toes
trusting, splashing in the spring.
Where sand meets the gravel,
wounded killdeer dance and cry
emphatically, turn brown feathers out
to drag upon the ground.
We pair them up like cattle
and search for speckled eggs,
always glancing to the north
to feel what’s coming our way.
drycrikjournal 