After awhile in a place, the trees we plant,
fertilize and irrigate for summer shade
and privacy need to be pruned to see
the pasture between us and the road,
as cows and calves become autumn’s
evening entertainment waiting
for a rain beneath a waxing moon
and the ridgeline’s jagged shadow
cast across a canyon greening—
the phone rings inside
lamenting the election
and everything it means:
no more robot recordings begging money
and votes four times a day for candidates
and propositions I know nothing about,
yet sure of another set of rules and taxes
to pay for agencies and enforcement
to make the majority feel better
about this crazy world. I need to raise
the curtain, cut another limb to sooner
see who or what’s coming up the road.
drycrikjournal 