Cover of wild oats, blond empty heads
and hollow stems, high on the ridges—
leftovers from last year’s incessant storms
that fed dark blankets of acorns
beneath the oak survivors of drought
that turned deer hair a healthy blue—
and shade this season’s thirsty green
waiting, waiting for a rain. Each year
a perfect season for someone, something
adaptable, generations in the same place.
When I was too busy being a loud cowboy,
I inhaled the wild without caring why,
without tasting the difference between
being alive and lasting for a longer time—
still learning to sip instead of guzzling wine.