We could be cattle, days
with no names like ticks on a clock—
each dark silence, welcome escape
from two years of want,
or stampeded substitute gods
overrun with adulation,
bringing feed and water to
damned-near everything.
Only now, with well-timed rain
and drizzles freeing cotyledons
from the clay, watching the young
bulls get acquainted with cows,
do we forget the drought
to see our future grass
and heifer calves—sure
that tomorrow is Tuesday.
drycrikjournal 
John, I see a little protected grass that looks hard and tall enough to be grazed. Has the season started?
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The cows have lost interest in alfalfa. The clay is short, but the drizzles helped everywhere. Put the bulls out yesterday and today, saw everything, our seasons’s underway.
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