Oak smoke from the woodstove
curls beneath the eave, gray snake
sliding from post to beam
to filter dawn’s first blinding light
after rain. Bare ground green
with cotyledons, damp with dew
overnight, sequins glistening
on blond dry stems—on the cusp
of something beginning with
the miracle of seed swelling
into new shoots, leaves of grass
over and over and over again
despite our ignorance and greed, our
ownership of more than the moment
as we prepare for another adventure:
oak and Manzanita stacked
against the dry and cold stretches
between the welcome rains.
drycrikjournal 