Bright color in the thin shade
of dry casualties: proud skeletons
of fathers and grandfathers,
generations of Blue Oaks standing
stoically against the sky, against
time as the earth comes alive.
Each silent prayer is a short nod
in passing—too many decomposing
monuments for long eulogies
no one will remember—
we dance past death
as the last obstacle to life.
drycrikjournal 