We know something’s coming,
the forecast changes every morning—
self-assured weathermen unabashed.
Cows don’t care for holidays,
have no plans—listen for the diesel
mantra to fill their bellies.
Half the hay barn is unemployed
and shed no rain. We meet at the gate
at dawn, glad to see one another
doing well in our small world
of dust trails. We know something’s
coming because it always does.
drycrikjournal 