Nothing sudden, poor dry hills
like thin cows show too much bone,
I look away for a spot of green
in shadows of trees, on north slopes
to weigh our hopes: how many days left
before it rains? Bankrupt with years
of debt, of dirt exposed, of dust released,
the old oaks have given-up to start over—
to become earth again, and we
make plans to brand another bunch
like Kestrels courting spring, falling
in a flutter before me yesterday:
fourth of February, seventy-seven degrees.
Nothing sudden, we plod against the obvious
knowing nothing stays the same.
drycrikjournal 
Very nice. Love those last two lines: “Nothing sudden, we plod against the obvious/knowing nothing stays the same.”
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Thanks, Leonard. Record high temperatures yesterday, the foothills as stressed as I’ve ever seen them. Forecast rain for the weekend that should help, but not near enough to set things straight. I’d sure like to get away from these drought poems.
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‘we plod against the obvious / knowing nothing stays the same’.
Just so read the lines of all humankind . . .
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