Under split nails and ground into our hides,
we wear our work—we carry it in our lungs
without shame or regret like grazing beasts
of the field, harvesting hillsides, plodding
from water to shade—ever-trusting in change:
the miracle of clouds packing oceans of rain.
Circles with hay, ruts of dust deep in tracks
up mountains and through brittle canyons—
it boils, rising behind us in trailing clouds,
each particle prepared for a new beginning.
We leave the gates open to any water, any
collection seeping from the cracked granite
heart of these hills, our flesh, for a drink.
The unabashed, dusty gazette of soft trails
leading to each distant water trough
prints last night’s news, distributed far
and wide, but much the same—yet we cling
to fuzzy dreams of green without detail.