Low snow up canyon, cold
rain at dawn, vernal pools
in the pasture stand full
waiting for Wood Ducks,
waiting for spring.
Sycamores stripped naked,
their white limbs wave
from across the creek
upon these ponds of water
in the evening sun.
Headlights slash the darkness,
a caravan of jeeps
and 4-wheel drives
whine down canyon—
weary songs back home.
drycrikjournal 
atmospheric
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