Golden hours before the haze
rises from the Valley, all shades
of yellow and brown without green
blaze beneath a deep blue,
cloudless sky—old horses hesitate
to notice, find remarkable, shuffling
the same words day after day.
No one listens to the forecast
over coffee anymore. Dusty hills
wait for a plan. You suggest
we brand some calves—best chance
we’ve ever had to bring a rain.