On my morning rounds
feeding hay, changing water,
we play tame games
on the edges of his space
bubble shrinking with the creek
drawn down to warm pools
hemmed in green grazed,
of water bugs and tadpoles,
blue gill fry and frogs.
Snow white serpentine
neck cocked, reflected
in the shadow of a sycamore—
another perfect photo-op
I try to remember instead.
Only Blue Herons here
when I was a boy,
but thirty years ago
the cattle egrets showed
in a flock, decorating
oak tree shade for cows
by the irrigation reservoir.
He knows my circles,
lets me stop to watch
close enough to hear
my camera’s shutter.
Two solitary forms
this time of day,
but for the pasture
of just-weaned calves
headed for feeders
full of alfalfa hay.
We choose to work alone,
make circles our way, but
happy to be noticed.
drycrikjournal 