Over boulders, we pick our way for months,
pressing cobbles into sand like pavement,
two trails under wheels with bales of hay
when the creek dries up. But when it rains
enough to fill the channel, we must feel
our way through loosened rocks like braille.
Seldom better or worse, no smooth progress
holds, just a spot where we can cross
the creek—a steady equilibrium stirred
for years—we begin again, our presence
beneath killdeer circling, forever crying
overhead, erased—each season fresh.
drycrikjournal 