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.
drycrikjournal 
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.
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Thanks, Skip, wish you the same before we get so caught up in the holidays we forget what they’re about.
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Refreshing to find your poem this morning. Thanks!
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