The sun is not yet high
and the loose dirt burns
my feet through leather boots
as we work for water:
trenching, gluing pipe
from well to tank to trough
among the oak trees
half-mile above the blacktop
where silhouettes of cattle
claim the shade, chew cuds
and watch. They cannot feel—
cannot see the urgency,
ever-trusting, unafraid
of our intrusion in their world—
we’ve kept them well.
The sun is not yet high
and I recognize the edge
of fuzzy delirium that turns
the order of this world
upside down, that obfuscates
governments and fear,
economies and philosophies—
that boils and distills
each moment down
to reliable water—
up here above it all
where nothing else matters.
drycrikjournal 