Our hills are turning,
lost the iridescence
that made us squint at dawn,
to just plain green—emerald
clumps of something yet
to bloom as poppies burn
holes in slopes, spreading fire
trimmed in ash-white skiffs
of popcorn flowers
on the steep emptying
into the branding pen
with big bawling calves.
Warm, ten days after
a two-inch rain, old eyes
detect the dry, see
faint yellowing
and don’t believe
in perfect springs,
don’t believe in perfect
anything, this side
of a four-year drought.
drycrikjournal 
Begs a photograph . . .
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I know, I know Peter. Been too busy and this spring moment deserves more than the ‘point and shoot’.
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Poppy fires I love.
janet
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Just look above the foothills and the edge of the drought becomes the middle of it – dead, red, forests. Trees not coming back at least in our lifetime. It’s a good time to be chaparral for a while.
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I suspect we will be seeing the devastation of four years of drought upon the Sierras in high altitude photographs in the near future, not only pines, but many cedars are dead. Down here, once the oak survivors begin to leaf out, we’ll have a better idea of the percentage that didn’t make it.
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