No butts or beer cans
behind the gate
behind the lock
behind the sign
beyond what you can see—
it is not perfect private property,
nor always.
A plane lands in the pasture
because it can
Sunday morning
playing early
while I’m working—
leaves tracks
in the dew.
I know their faces now,
say their names
hauling cattle,
crawling up and down
the mountain—
slow low range,
four wheel drive:
Brewer’s Lupine,
Goldfields,
Pipe Stem Clematis,
in new places.
Pale Owl’s Clover
everywhere
along the dirt road—
cold, dry year.
I am relieved, pleased
to see them return
despite the weather
despite the cattle
despite us
feeding weeds and grass to people.
drycrikjournal 