We replay the day
of branding calves, glad
your horse has healed
beneath me strong—
the feel of the rope
remembered as our eyes
follow the eagle’s flight
low across the green
trolling for ground squirrels
busy with housekeeping,
absorbing the sun
after months of rain.
He stops mid-air
on his second pass,
falls back and plunges
into the grass, wings
shielding warmth within
his taloned grasp
as we talk and share
binoculars, checking on
life in this canyon—
of going nowhere
like the eagle
already home.
drycrikjournal 
Wish I could be in your “nowhere”. I got snowed on feeding the horse this morning. I know spring is out there somewhere, there are tiny buds on my sycamore. Just not here just yet!!
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So often when I read your poems a/o see your photos, I get that I-want-to-be-in-Wyoming feeling. 🙂 Looking forward to August!
janet
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John, have you lost that bit of “outlaw” side? I notice the change from black to the white hat. 😉
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I usually have a dress black and a silverbelly saved for special occasions. After too many special occasions, they get replaced and recirculated to ranch work. Right now the white is in better shape than the black. An Atwood straw in the summer.
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Home sweet home!
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