A little snow up the draw
beyond our foothill ridges
stuck on Redwood Mountain

and I imagine quail
puffed-up in the bare spots,
on fractured rounded rocks

with dull moss, motionless,
plump little generals
braced against the cold.

It is so easy now to escape
the pain of hopeless human
matters, of tyrants, despots

and the deranged waiting
to fill the next breach
in time. Perhaps a precursor

to senility, I practice slipping
              out of formation
to draw upon a different truth.


3 responses to “AT DAWN

  1. Before I forget, I want to thank you for your offerings and to wish ya’ll a Merry Christmas and a safe and sane Holiday. Take care.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Peter Notehelfer

    Refreshing to find your poem this morning. Thanks!

    Liked by 1 person

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