Slowly the sun creeps across the floor;
it is coming your way. It touches your shoe.
– William Stafford (“It’s All Right”)
All the shades of brown are crisp now,
mid-December light, shadows linger
to look like cows frozen on bare hillsides,
leaves litter the dry creek bed as sycamores
show flesh, willows burn in between
like lanterns. Blue Oaks become frightened
skeletons on the run. It is a drought
and it is beautiful, everything giving-up
at once, looking to die. The top heavy
flatbed stacked another layer high
squats and groans down the road,
string of thin black cows following
inside the barbed wire like perfectly
disciplined children—all makes sense.
It’s simple now for quite awhile.
drycrikjournal 