drycrikjournal

Red-headed woodpeckers take turns
at a Rainbird sprinkler dripping, sip
a drop at a time clinging to galvanized
pipe for hours in the summer, choose
a slow leak over a full water trough.

To survive, we adapt to the leftover
comforts of others, the leaks and
imperfections of progress, ignore
the loud and idle chatter striding by,
and focus on living with eyes open.

Almost tame, the Rock Wren cleans
the window screen for bugs. Roadrunners
stride tomato vines for worms. Coveys
of Quail move-in, followed by gray
hawks—all aware of the real news.

I could have written sooner to thank you
all—too many short notes with succinct
and caring phrases to count, too much
heart to consider, then bear, at once.

A man can drown in his own gratefulness
rising, hold his breath and hope he will float.
I think of all the doors cracked open for me,
peeks into other worlds, other ways of seeing.

It was all new once, each wisp a sign
of more to come, or to help me remember
my way home. But on the loose, youth
can be confusing chasing rabbits for the run

or fun of it. You may be still spinning in space
writing poetry with Ginsberg on Hale-Bopp,
but you gave me work when I needed it,
pride in what my hands could do, solace

in small and calloused accomplishment,
a place to go to find the truth flourishing
around me, wisdom and a strong distrust
of handsome faces and all government.

Cattle on pasture
wait for a truck
without knowing
their destination,

short-haul west
to Harris Ranch
feed bunks, or
1,500 miles east
to crowded pens
in the corn belt—

                    they don’t know
                    they sell
                    on the Internet
                    tomorrow.

Heavy steers
asleep now in the dark,
in the dry with
damp green dreams
of another day
like yesterday
where living is easy—
without worry or care.

They have become bored
with being full,
lying in the sandy shade
of sycamores, waiting
for a new zip code.

July Sunday, first light cool
through the screen door.
Dogs asleep, the same
black line of ridgetops
falls from a lavender sky,
thin underbelly of the moon
in space exposed beneath
a bright morning star.

Kubota cowboy, crossing
the dry creek bed
in last month’s
depressed tracks,
cobbles black and flat
to dump yesterday’s lawn
clippings to the bulls,
chewed already fine.

I own the road
in dawn’s shadow, sunlight
burning slowly like a fire
down the canyon’s east slope.
Pump water, load hay
before the sun hits the barn.

Downstream from there,
two young bicyclists
peddle easily
in identically sleek
racing outfits
smile in and out of shadows
of first light streaking
through sycamores
spread down the channel.

The morning is hazy
along the periphery, but
the world is changing,
even on Dry Creek.

The creek disappears,
runs underground to the roots,
up thick, gray trunks of sycamores
to fill limbs and turn leaves
into dark green canopies of shade
over an occasional pothole
of warm water that herons
and coons have already gleaned,
but for the underwater bugs.

Sycamores are greedy,
take all the water they can,
believe in unlimited growth
they can’t support, lose limbs
with the crack of a rifle shot:
                    leave wilting proof
                    of gravity
                    upon fences
                    along the road
                    over and over again.
They never learn.

July is sweltering,
air heavy as days bake
into still landscapes.
Everyone is up and out
stalking one another
at the first hint of light.
And come the gloaming,
rabbits run from shade to shade,
the bleached-blond ground
waves with roadrunners herding
mom and pop coveys
of quail on wheels
from cover to water
with serious tittering.

Coyotes come close
to the house in the dark,
bait the dogs to bark
until the lights come on
to dress for work—
or confess on paper
before the brain
stews like a tomato
in July outside.