It must be spring after the parade
of dry cold fronts and little rain—
even the cows look up
and down brown south slopes,
short-cropped and brittle blades
curled and fragile, given-up
to look like bare ground—
burnt hard dirt angled
to face the sun full-on. Done.
We needed rain, but
I don’t remember praying
much, mostly hoping the cold
would release its grasp
of cows and calves in snow—
our freeze-dried beef on the hoof
feeling betrayed with not enough
loads of hay hauled up the hill.
We, not God, feel guilty.
No young man’s game,
unless cowboying for wages,
no two years the same,
we look ahead desperately,
chase Accuweather to the equinox
to see how bad it gets to be—
how soon we wean and ship
light calves, cull cows deep
to stay another season.
Even the finches are confused,
flit nervously in the rafters
before courting—no one’s
making plans this spring,
except for Robbin
in the garden
planting seed.
It must be spring.
We must believe.
drycrikjournal 
Still less than 10″ here, and not much time left for a Miracle March. Just gotta keep gettin’ up in the morning. And this morning our daffodils and camellias look great, the birds and frogs are singing, the squirrels are spurting up and down the trees, and there’s still water running in Blossom Ditch. And Robbin’s in the garden, making the most of whatever this spring will bring. Hope you don’t have to sell too many cows you don’t want to!
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The truth – well spoken!
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