Rising from the saddle
beneath Sulphur,
a full wolf moon views
first break in the rain
for over a week
as if to assess
a rare miracle:
green slopes leaking
rivulets spilling
into draws into creeks
foamed like Irish coffee.
We are drunk with it
wanting more, another
warm sweet storm
to validate
a lifetime—this
wild existence:
grass and rain,
cows to graze
our blurred exposure.
drycrikjournal 