Fractured granite baked in clay,
drought-bare slopes now soft with grass
in waves of sun-bleached blond
await the eventide of shrinking light
as shadows climb, retreat into the black
of night as we raise a glass of wine
to gods returned and sigh—knowing
nothing will ever be the same again
in our minds, or how we pray for more
holidays of rain than we need
in this canyon envelope of heat
we graze from shade to shade.
drycrikjournal 