On the low, rocky ridge,
a Roadrunner moans for a mate
in declining octaves—first awake
February mornings, ever hopeful
for a better day of circumnavigating
barn and garden. Then returns
to hear his song carry to the creek
that has found the river now
for the first time in years, tying
dry ground, this canyon together—
breathing easier, whole again,
it spreads coolly through us
as Wood Ducks skip upstream
to feed beneath the canopies
of old oaks and sycamores.
We have learned the call,
draw him closer with an answer
only more rain can bring.
drycrikjournal 
Picture and verse fill me with a sense of coming home . . . Very nice!
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Though a paltry flow, it’s a physical sense of wholeness, OKness that fills the canyon and underwrites our relief.
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