We chase seasons in circles
of the sun—hot, cold, wet, dry—
await instruction of the senses
looking for a sign, for a reason
other than the comfort
of familiar trails loaded
with surprises and dashed hopes
that wire will hold a ranch
together, deter the nature of bulls
looking for work or a fight. It’s easy
to forget our differences, see
ourselves somewhere in the herd
looking out at the world
through another set of eyes—
of rocks and trees,
domestic and wild. And after
chasing seasons for awhile,
we begin to think like them.
drycrikjournal 
Wow! Thank you….your poems get better and better.
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THANK YOU! You know what they say about a blind pig finding an acorn every once in awhile.
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Love the line, ‘…that wire will hold a ranch together…’ So much said in so few words.
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Thanks, Tom, but so many other variables apart from barbed wire. I grew up when baling wire was an essential element in every tool box.
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Me, too. I think this is why I struck home with me. Thank you.
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Spell check got me. ‘it’ not ‘I.’
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Good!
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