No evening news to discuss,
nothing to eclipse the day’s
smooth accomplishments:
the horse and cattle dance
across the road, the sort
and ricochet to load
fractious bull calves
for town—the seed is ripe
we are harvesting.
Market always up or down,
I remember my epiphany
at forty, dickering over price—
not trying to get rich,
but bank enough to stay
another round of seasons
looking for sign,
listening to voices
recorded on ridge tops,
all looking down canyon
through time upon
this clod of ground.
drycrikjournal 
Appreciate how you ground us.
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Thank you. Has to be more to life than what’s offered through most media, affecting us all as a basis for reality.
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