The old trees have eyes
and gaping mouths
that try to speak
of what they’ve seen
before I came.
The granite grins
and looks inside my mind
to imagine everything
that has never been, yet.
The Red Tail follows
from oak to oak. Quail
run on invisible wheels
ahead of the tittering
of little birds scattering
the news as they go.
Without his shadow,
the coyote can’t see
his silhouette from the shade,
does not know that I can
act as obvious as he.
A doe and fawn freeze.
A bobcat lopes off
as I arrive. Everyone becomes
a messenger, even me,
packing salt to cows.
drycrikjournal 
Love that one, John!
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