This is not the end, of course—
we promise ourselves another day
when earthen hills turn wild with color,
cattle fat. We search photographs
for details begging to come alive again.
We circle back to bring them with us.
This dusty trail goes on and on,
and yet there are places the earth grins
defiantly in the draws and north slopes
thin with spears of green, curled by frost,
reaching gleefully for the warm Solstice—
unafraid of the future, unafraid of us.
drycrikjournal 