Christmas Eve, a veil of dust
hangs and hesitates as if waiting
for a southern gust before the call
of gravity—before falling back
into the same soft groove
cut by hooves to water.
Each particle of time grows
smaller with stirring, forgets who
it was to look down and around
for a friend, wanting to remain—
to settle back into another moment
upon the earth with a little rain.
drycrikjournal 