This is the life
we’ve chosen—free
to work what we want
or go bellyup beside the asphalt.
We believe in clouds,
the darker the better—
pray to the sky
and acknowledge every sign
that might mean something.
We grin like fools that know
it’s going to rain, someday
in Two-thirteen, or the next,
while we feed hay, our day job
where names don’t matter.
Each moment hangs on
the breath of cattle, steaming.
for Robbin
drycrikjournal 
Very true, John – you stated it correctly! The rain will come someday.
Sophie
LikeLike
We all remember E.J.’s predictions. One year branding in Britten Cove, dry desperation on my young face, he put his hand to my shoulder and proclaimed, “It’ll rain, Dofflemyer. It’ll rain.” And it did.
LikeLike
Thank you. It brings me peace somehow. Beautiful
LikeLike