We wait with weathered totems
in the garden, the always happy
ceramic caricatures, for rain.
We search for sign on ridgelines
drawn nearer, the sky for wisps
of manes and tails as cows beg
at the fenceline, a cacophonous
crescendo, a chorus of hoarse chords
intensifies the canyon’s imperative
between feed days as if we were gods
for a moment—healers, soothers, pleasers,
or just hired hands late for work.
drycrikjournal 