It is easy to be disappointed with gods
bringing only a veil of mist
when we hunger for rain.
We have dismissed our lust
for days and nights of dark storms
that seems beyond our means—
swollen creeks and gushing floods
fade in the distance, flake
like bark from dehydrated flesh.
Only the purple cotyledons
of Red-Stem Fillaree still believe
in miracles, open yet to the heavens,
to the sky. We load the goosenecks
with young girls for town,
shiny and fat with months of alfalfa—
say goodbye to what could have been
better than the auction ring. We know
the gods can’t do everything.
drycrikjournal 