We know where we are in the West
waiting for a rain, chasing forecasts,
feeding hay, thinking about praying

to gods and goddesses alike,
to the floating spirits, the old parts
of the whole soul that dwells here

with you and me, and with the souls
of dear helping hands on this dry ground
cut by canyons and grazed by our family

of cows—our circle of souls surround us
waiting for a rain. A faith so
commonplace, we take it for granted.

Is it fear
that draws us near
to spectacles,
the barker’s bark,
flags and bunting,
calliope?

Gray hair, State Capitol
behind him,
he’s horseback
bringing cows down
out of the mountains
for generations—
needs no Internet
or TV
to ride reality
behind a bunch
of cows pausing
for their calves.

We can learn to think
for ourselves again,
turn our backs
on the latest act—
invest instead in
what gives us peace.

                             for Les

The crows are back
to claim their roost
on the service pole above
pump and water trough.

The quail are scarce
since the Sharp-Shinned hawk
has come to spend
winter above the fog.

The Sycamores have quit
drinking from the dry creek bed,
quit pumping moisture
to their yellowing leaves.

Even the old bucks think
their necks are swelling
after the first rain smelling
primeval, basic and good.

Evening conversation dwells
on a thin cow, vaccine
protocol and the dog’s limp

without a hint of politics
beyond the barbed wire—
beyond this ground and grass.

We don’t want to know
what makes the news—
what makes the outside world

tick with greed and power.
Evening conversation dwells
on more important things.