Over boulders, we pick our way for months,
pressing cobbles into sand like pavement,
two trails under wheels with bales of hay

when the creek dries up. But when it rains
enough to fill the channel, we must feel
our way through loosened rocks like braille.

Seldom better or worse, no smooth progress
holds, just a spot where we can cross
the creek—a steady equilibrium stirred

for years—we begin again, our presence
beneath killdeer circling, forever crying
overhead, erased—each season fresh.


3 responses to “THE CROSSING

  1. As usual – – dynamite!!

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thank you, Sally. It’s important to me that my poetry resonates with people in the livestock culture, outside, hands-on people who think about how things work. Hopefully it makes those who don’t have that experience realize that there might be a little more to harvesting grass with cattle than wearing boots and a hat. Thanks for taking the time to comment.


  2. “Trails” and tribulations, yet with reward at the end.


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