Always on the edge of it,
the Valley fades into flat farms
and busy towns we have forgotten
beyond our circle of foothill cows.
Visalia lies somewhere in the haze.
Up and down the state
commerce churns cars between
RVs and trucks on US 99
we can’t see—yet tension turns
a wheel away as I leave
my window framed
in drought-killed trees,
yet still standing to screen
my wobbly presence
near the edge of it—I retreat
to more solid ground.
drycrikjournal 