Across the dry creek bed, a girl is busy
trying to find her calf in the dark.
They talk long distance as she falls
from the dim silhouette of the ridge.
Her voice wavers in jolts as front hooves
find the mountain underneath the dust.
In the deep black silence that follows
it presses against her warm belly
I cannot see—sucks each quarter flat.
Some things we know without proof,
without science or light—
basic things of always truth.
drycrikjournal 