Now soft in places, red clay slick
feeding cows in the brown
bare flats beneath naked hills
loose piles of last year’s alfalfa,
each dry flake spaced to fall
into small green haystacks
where cows camp in an undulating
line within a cloudy chill
until this promise of grass
changes the color of everything
we have known for too long.
Looking down, plodding still,
eyes occupied with searching for
the first cotyledons to break free
from the crust, glad hands open
to the elements believing in more
good rains. Vote for those who know
growth without water won’t work.
drycrikjournal 
Saw the first cotyledons this morning!
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Me too! 🙂 🙂
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I had to look up “cotyledons” and I’m still not clear on what it is except maybe a new green shoot of a grass or plant. It would be a welcome sight in the brown landscape. Enjoyed the ending of your poem. Apt enough for voting day.
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Thank you. We could see some green at a distance in places on the south slopes — truly a miracle in the making.
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