Locating the middle of a drought,
like chasing rainbows, is
impossible and important only
to guess how tough we must yet be—
how much barn grows empty,
how much heart, the cattle.
Another wet forecast dashed – – – –
storm door closing north, we are
amazed how easily a chance
rekindles hope, enflames skies—
its dry tinder igniting on a breeze.
We are like the good cows
ever-trusting in the hay truck,
in the pastoral gods and goddesses
returning to nurture the earth
next week? next month? next year?
We plan brandings around each chance,
yet to dream of giving-up.
drycrikjournal 