drycrikjournal

Limp head and tail draped on the top rail,
a raven skins a young ground squirrel
that looks like a snake from a distance

I try to improve by posing nonchalantly
as an unfocused old man with a camera
puttering without direction. On the cusp

of summer, of green bleached brown,
and busy exposing bare ground, the local
crows and ravens keep track of me.

He drops low to coast hidden behind
the trailer, then just over my head,
black chisel beak dripping with entrails

towards where a nest ought to be—
just to show me he’s watching, and like
a mouse on the doorstep, earning his keep.

Every once in a while I get my wish
of sixty years to drive tractor, little boots
breaking clods behind a disk–the loud,

unmuffled power lurching in the hands
of one man turning the ground up
with bugs and worms, clouds of backbirds

drawn like seagulls trailing fishing boats
on the ocean. The diesel purrs metallically,
the local crows and ravens glide low

over tractor and disk breaking into the earth.
Even the old red horse recognizes me
perched on this new contraption, sweet

smell of damp dirt and wants to play
along the fence, paw and roll–just
something attractive about a tractor.

Perhaps a hundred since the first two
stopped for shade and water, forgot
home and stayed to raise families

in every barn and shed for five miles
in as many years, trying the high eaves
of human domesticity. Their nesting coos

in the rafters turn to a singing flap of wings
when swashbuckling raven lights, like
Zorro, upon the horse pens. Gentle feathers

rain from the roof. A black cape walks
the top plate collecting eggs, taking naked
squab to a disheveled nest of kindling.

We pray in strange ways and
genuflect before the gods at hand—
thin skinned, mending fence,
drops of blood from rusty barbs
on blond stems, sweat spots
in the dust when it will not rain.

And when it does, we spray
and hoe weeds at the gates
for rattlesnakes, make fire breaks
to hold the leap of flames at bay
and thank God every summer
evening for another day of feed.

Between weathermen, we hear
news of another world churning
with drama and disaster, and turn
instead to native totems that grace
the land, then nod to our gods—
believing in more than we understand.

                         Until he extends his circle of compassion to include
                         all living things, man will not himself find peace.
                                                       – Albert Schweitzer

We shoulder ourselves up amid the purple, red,
blue and golden wildflowers amid cascades of grass
seed arched, hanging heavily, picking our way

around moments, trying to leave no track—
speckled Killdeer eggs in gravel driveways,
we choose who to include within our circles

when they amuse us, when we grow up. And so
it goes ‘til we get old, if we’re lucky, making-up
for youth. But there are certain irritations that enflame

outrage and engulf us, the wars beyond our barb wire
we cannot win with battles, that will not let go.
Like the Yokuts leaving game on the doorsteps

of early settlers, what have we to offer our demons?
For better or worse, the end is the same—but perhaps
more a matter of how we choose to get there.