Author Archives: John

Good hatch of hawks,
woodpeckers
and ground squirrels
for a dry spring.

No acorns to hide
after a blistering summer,
no dry feed by fall—
just bare dirt

where squirrels become
easy-pickings
out of burrows
for a sky-full of hawks—

easy to spot
at the head
of a streaming
trail of dust.

Across the dry creek bed, a girl is busy
trying to find her calf in the dark.
They talk long distance as she falls

from the dim silhouette of the ridge.
Her voice wavers in jolts as front hooves
find the mountain underneath the dust.

In the deep black silence that follows
it presses against her warm belly
I cannot see—sucks each quarter flat.

Some things we know without proof,
without science or light—
basic things of always truth.

                         …leathery past-gone settlers
                         wait for a miracle.
                               – Red Shuttleworth (“Let Fall Soundless”)

The primitive hangs in dust boiling-over
our heads—a heavy coat of wild generations
ground fine-enough to be inhaled, ingested
again—we keep busy waiting for a change:
for rain, for grass to hold the past
in check. Become green feed, then seed.

Hay dust floats from the barn roof,
green haze of dry alfalfa leaf
sticks in the back of my throat
I can’t cough loose—through barbed wire
young cows count each bale
onto the truck, plead with babies.

Grit gathering in the corners of every eye,
hearts anesthetized, we think of them
as people, weigh the whole and wonder
if our tribe has been overlooked.
Behind us, plodding rises into the sky,
a prayer that begs to settle dust and despair.

No dark clouds,
no silver linings
through Halloween,

each weatherman grins
with his gift
of clear skies

for the next two weeks
while the pickup groans
and haystacks shrink.

We plod like cows
inhaling dust clouds
to strings of hay,

make mental sorts
who goes to town.
Grounded now, we

pray in short-breaths
rather than cuss the gods
that own us.

We have come far—
made living easier
and more complex

                    our labyrinth of laws
                    unequaled and unequal

in a tangled maze
where Anyman can be
swallowed-up,
bound and wrapped
in a sticky web of knots.

We must be careful
what we say,
what we think—
we have no secrets,
no reason to whisper—
no place safe within
the eyes of men.

We have come far—
but just off the road
circling escorts
of Red Tails greet us,
make their each exchange
a thing of grace
throughout a day
feeding hay.

In dry times, waterholes far between
and hillsides bare, we gather and learn
to get along—wild and domestic,
prey and predator, bent to the same bowl.

No call now for zealots or evangelists—
our near-future hangs in the heavens,
in the dark clouds, in the generosity
of the gods, not well-fed demagogues

posturing to the thirsty. In dry times,
we don’t have to look too far to find
someone to blame ahead of time
for our demise—but who has the energy?

The tarantulas are back daring traffic
on a road-full of weekend buck hunters
and Christians working the same mountain.

Going thirty, I can dodge them if not looking
for coyotes in the bare flats where no calf
can hide—the plodding now less encumbered

if you are a hairy spider or hungry coyote
on no secret mission. Moving slowly, I try
to keep my dust down. Everything is obvious

long-distance—we all know why—but
close-up you may find what you once lost,
something dear you haven’t seen in years.