drycrikjournal

A still reflection in black night
on redwood two by sixes outside
the window at three could be
the top of a deep pond, but it’s not.

I listen, but only the tinkling
of tiny drops in the downspouts
of just-cleaned gutters, all-day Monday
worn on your hands as you sleep—

one last ritual to please the rain gods,
or throwback penance if we’ve sinned
by feeding cattle on the Sabbath.
Chimney swept, woodstove clean,
waiting for Manzanita stacked
beneath the eave—all checked off
in case it rains. We’ve done all we can,
been good Boy Scouts, heard our fathers’
voices a thousand times in this drought—
they would be proud. It’s nothing, really—
but it’s wet.

Three months straight, hay
every third day to first-calf heifers
listening, leaning at the barbed wire

hoof to ear, for combustion—dawn’s
diesel fire and rumble starts
cold night dreams come true—

their chorus builds into new crescendos
as they fidget on the edge of stampede
to surround the house on the Sabbath.

We are not the center of their dusty world.
The truck, like clouds bring rain, brings
sweet alfalfa hay. We taste the air,

see under the oak trees across the canyon,
search for the first sign of dark passing ships
and remember how it was to watch it rain.

You won’t believe
how we got here
after the animals and bird people
met for the last time
to turn us loose on this ground.

You won’t believe
we did without electric
light at the end of the tunnel—
our cache of acorns
to get us through the winter.

You won’t believe
that we survived.
You won’t believe
we are the dust you breathe
in these dry times.

This is the life
we’ve chosen—free
to work what we want
or go bellyup beside the asphalt.

We believe in clouds,
the darker the better—
pray to the sky
and acknowledge every sign

that might mean something.
We grin like fools that know
it’s going to rain, someday
in Two-thirteen, or the next,

while we feed hay, our day job
where names don’t matter.
Each moment hangs on
the breath of cattle, steaming.

                                                  for Robbin

When the lights dim
a man holds to solid things.
Even Sisyphus wants his rock
and well-worn hill, the lumps
and bumps to lean against—
pockets of rest rather than
succumb to the quick and easy
new monotony where nothing
ever stays the same.

At the hardware store, I wait
for bent old men to finish
passing medical procedures
over the counter like medals
won in war, lean on canes.
This is where the retired come,
or to the doughnut shop
for gossip, coffee and calories.
I want my rocks and trees.