Best to paint a better picture
without the grizzly details,
without the place the rifle takes
the task at hand—I know the way
and how to get back
digging a hole in hard ground.
I can’t replay all the faces
in my crosshairs, but
a compassionate man checks out
to play God
deaf to sentiment and fear
long enough to not like it—
better to have cattle trailing
the feed truck
to wherever it goes.
2.16” of rain the past two days and snow down to about 2,000 feet yesterday have been a game changer for Robbin and me. So long dry, it’s not been easy to think in any other terms than drought, but we’re getting there as the south and west slopes fill in with green. Forecast for more rain on the way through Christmas.
I’ve worked hard on my imperfections:
hobbled anger to the point of giving up
my passion. The drought has beat me up
into a zombie retracing small circles
from house to barn for hay to cattle
and back home for years, it seems.
I gathered ghosts and local wild gods
to hope upon a waxing moon for rain,
for a superfluous verdancy to untrack me,
clear the air and make mud of dust—
it’s beginning now, a standing ovation
of applause upon a metal roof.
drycrikjournal 