We stay our ground, claim our space
with shadows moving beside us, part of
the shade it takes to raise a cow on grass—
but of all the gods, we believe in rain.
Roots too deep to drink and chant,
to wave our hands at heaven, we wait
assured like old oaks certain, push
tender leaves like we always have—
despite the sounds of our unknown
future waiting in the dark ahead.
Blind faith becomes a habit for wild
inhabitants beneath the wandering path
of clouds, we fluff pillows and make
our beds as if we might awake
to the perfect season for native grass
that has adapted—like we always have.
drycrikjournal 