The storms line up
like diesel trucks
in the slow lane,
hills green
and scattered cattle
graze ridgetops.
I had forgotten how
heaven looked,
learning to live
with dust and smoke,
all shades of brown—
years without water.
We cannot reduce
all the ghoulish skeletons
to cordwood, clear
these monuments of oak
from mind or eye.
They will remind us
of who we came to be
to survive
what they could not.
drycrikjournal 
So happy to hear that the storms are finding their way to your valley.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Great thoughts . . . Someone [?] once said: ‘A monument says “We made it this far!”; a marker says “This is where we were before we moved on.'” Worth thinking on . . .
LikeLiked by 1 person
Poignant.
LikeLiked by 1 person