This town
is mine, and even out of the corner
of my eye, everything is in place
for me here at the edge, one man
rising and falling with the tide.
– Quinton Duval (“III. Mariner”)
1.
She dictates the order of things now,
the imperatives of season, the slope
of earth and sun in circles over time
we follow—a plodding slow dance
that she allows as one last quest for grace
among cattle, grass and water—
you and I, silhouettes at the trough,
as a pair of crows discussing plans
and what we’ve done, each evening.
Time is nothing, no urgency exists
and contrary to my father’s
Thirteenth Beatitude: Blessed are
the slow afoot, for they shall never
get anyplace—we are home.
The meadowlark will sing at the gate,
the young bred cows will watch me
move water on the pasture
and we will make repairs along the way.
2.
We know her habits,
love to ride the swells of wet times
so we can dream of them
when she is dry:
Hand in hand we met the creek
pushing a raft of leaves—
we cried out like children
as raindrops streaked your cheek.
We may own the ground
she visits, clean house
and make her our mistress,
but we cannot make her stay.
We clean her house, fix fence
and water, make garden beds
full, just as if she were here
to hold us together.
3.
Roadrunners,
gophers and snakes choose
to live with us, and it’s easy
to tell who is who
when the quail pair-up,
break from the covey
to nest and raise babies.
Little man stands sentry
or prances goose-step,
breast out, top-knot bobbing
while she’s busy looking
in bushes and rocks.
On the porch,
down the steps
into the garden,
it takes days for her
to make up her mind
a twitter with the pros and cons
of all things domestic.
drycrikjournal 