Too many grandfather oaks, like generals
overlooking generations of rooted acorns,
occupy the north slopes, troops erect
to the sky—too much silt either side
for landlocked sycamores with centuries
of persistence waiting for the creek to rise.
It was an avalanche of mud and rock,
half the mountain sliding into the Kaweah
to form Pogue Canyon, change its course
before our time—our moment in the canyon
as the planet wobbles on its axis,
finds its balance with the squabbling
of humanity. Close to the earth:
evidence everywhere you look
that someday in this place, it will rain.
drycrikjournal 