drycrikjournal

                           The world is not what we thought it was.
                                             – Jim Harrison (“Suite of Unreason”)

Much done behind us, I listen in the dark
for predicted rain—like an old friend
I don’t expect to arrive on time, if at all—

wondering if this day is mine to spend
without the human dramas spawned
on flat land for sudden hillsides, or will I

retreat, once again, to cows and calves,
to the chain saw’s whine, go deeper under
the covers of this landscape to pray and

commiserate with my gods, those plural
and lower-cased forces at play that are
indeed the living wonders of this world:

groaking in the tops of gray oak trees,
scarlet hybrids, red-chested sapsuckers
none had seen this far south—bright

harbingers for a cold winter with the bumper
crop of acorns, black upon the ground—a
slim chance beyond that still makes sense.

No alarm clock here, we take turns
waking-up on the hour before the first
branding of the year, lists of implements,

food and vaccines checked in our sleep
before heading up the hill, leaving
convenience for the make-do miles

off the asphalt where anything can happen
despite best-laid plans. We should be
too old, too accustomed to this drill

to toss and turn—we should be sure
and secure with familiar faces and horses,
good hands and neighbors come to help,

like always. Grown old together, we
understand what we have lost—yet shake out
another loop just to grin into the sun.

Like try-outs for the lead,

                    it’s hard to tell
                    who’s not acting,
                    who’s not for real.

                    This cream risen:
                    American prime
                    hoofing down

                    the campaign trail—
                    another year
                    of non-sequitur,

                    closet embarrassments,
                    and hateful insults
                    to endure. Bad karma

                    for hard times, we hope
                    who pulls the strings
                    does not lose interest

in the play.

Headlights dancing down orchard rows,
silhouettes of men, half-loaded bob-tail
stuck in mud, getting oranges in
before the next rain and forecast freeze.

Unmuffled tractor groaning over shouts,
tight chain—there was no quittin’ time
around Christmas in those days, no room
for church or grammar school recitals:

God helped those who helped themselves,
who made hay while the sun shined.
It’s all we really knew of the world:
it took all year to raise a crop to sell.

Before non-cultivation, stinging nettles
high in a young boy’s face, I followed men
swamping field boxes into the night,
and couldn’t imagine a higher calling.

Forecasts vary, computer models change:
dry rain of fiery leaves, stirred and torn
from the honey locust tree, clouds waves

in all shades of gray—a dark flotilla
peeks over the ridge for ships run aground
against the Sierras leaking cargo low

as Blue Ridge trimmed with white ribbon.
We sip whiskey, replay the week and squeal
like children on each gust, tip our glasses

to the work got done. To herds of virgins
readied for the Wagyu bulls, gentle ladies
churning under a full moon. To the mothers

with first calves driven up canyon, now
grazing the north slopes as it tries to rain.
To the four we couldn’t find by day:

awakened by their bawling for babies,
night lit by the moon, they awaited
dawn at the gate while we slept easily.

So much needs not to be said.
Old men grin with their eyes,
save breath with a look

of understanding, yet
the preachers, teachers and poets
go on and on, searching

for resonance, for the magic
words to open doors, when
all we need to do is look.

They think, see you carefully and read
your simple poetry as if an open window
to your mind. You must offer honesty,

kindly, find your rhythm on a hillside,
find grace and patience where there is
no hiding your intent so far away

from the corrals. This morning’s page:
steep—Blue Oaks thick on a north slope
slick and rocky where the grass has held

and drawn them, peppered dots of cows
and calves appear and disappear within
a raft of trees where they should be,

despite your sort of wets and drys,
despite the pens and alleys you try
to write around—they are content.

Another game in the backroom, smoke
clouds a swinging lamp, wagers made
‘for’ and ‘against’ the whims of human nature
as dancing girls serve, and serve again

all over town for a dollar. We could be
the carcass on the table, flesh sliced thin,
honed steel a glint, they toil and angle
like bloody butchers trimming the best cuts

for themselves. Outside, pimps and barkers
watch the door, up and down the street,
pretend to be selective, pocket bribes
and whisper, ‘it’s the safest game in town.’

No tea cups here, no cloth napkins,
no silver candelabras holding flame—
the play is fast and furious, full of
promises, ‘you’ll never leave the same.’

Always gambling on the sunlight, on
the rain, the planet spins its own roulette:
hawks glide and rivers murmur to the wild
that’s left without a dime to its name.