Alive, up-canyon ridges grip like fingers
into the creek bed, pulling from either side,
tearing flesh in a flowing furrow slowing
near the river, spreading fines in the flats
mixed and gathered from granite peaks
where natives search for signs of rain—
for hope, for the ultimate escape
to sit and talk with all gone on before,
to watch the earth unfold—to perhaps
even walk with gods. No allure
of alabaster shine or golden thrones
beyond the clouds compels the wild
heart or the keen eye, satisfied
with working for a woodstove
or making shade to shed a rain.
drycrikjournal 