Low hills worn smooth as flesh,
summer blonds with different shades
of grazing play in one another’s shadow
at dusk and dawn, a plain and treeless
nakedness I trace, pausing with my eyes,
to touch ridges, gaps and valleys falling
into Live Oak canyons, gentle slopes frozen
in an undulating moment drawn and prolonged
with each breath in uncertain light—slipping
slightly, she comes alive, dressing differently
with each season. At work early, young herons
greet me. We nod and say good morning.
drycrikjournal 