A few blue clouds float
upon a light gray sky
above Barnaphy after
the surprise last gasp
of a cut-off low
cruising south to flood
California’s coast—
a warm forty hundredths here
brings a tinge of green.
Sycamores like torches afire,
not quite ready to undress
their long white limbs
intertwined, plump Rockettes,
our native chorus line
burns along the creek.
The cattle stay high,
all but a hopeful clutch
spurn the feed grounds.
drycrikjournal 