BFORE THE RAIN

The cows know the way

following the idling sounds

of the diesel hay truck

to the feed grounds just beyond

the glacial slab of granite

honeycombed with grinding holes

of another era

when 300 Natives

made a living in this canyon.

After the flood

they moved the road

away from the creek in ’69—

exposing human bones.

The cast iron well head

for the red brick slaughterhouse

stands like a gravestone

among dead oak limbs—for

a time between then and now.

A cow turns back to attend to her calf

swallowing dust, another murmurs

trust that there will be hay.

*          *           *          *

0.28″