Dawn waits beyond the black
robe that cloaks the undulating
ridgeline before we spin
into sunrise, most everyday
without clouds or rain
that we hope for, that we forgive
in our routines plodding toward
little change. Horses wait
for the screen door’s slap,
dogs rush to clear
the well-worn path,
quail scatter to start the day—
small details wait to be seen,
hide in the shrinking shadows
of unwritten scripts.
drycrikjournal 
Love the pic and the attendant poem. Looks like our hills at dawn the past few days. No rain spatters though, the clouds are barren.
Hope your knee is doing well.
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Glad you’re feeling well enough to get back to writing, John. This one has vivid images and I can see what you’re seeing. It’s one of the things I like about your work.
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Thanks. How nice, Susanne.
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