drycrikjournal

Separated from the bunch,
good to see a cow in clouds
wanting to make rain—

and she glad to see us,
relieved with proof of life
right before her eyes.

We are not so different
when sentenced to isolation
without our cell phones.

After the first cold night,
my eyes leap to drink
the dying colors in—

the last clasp of stubborn
summer’s steamy green
giving up its leaves.

Soothed by the taste
of truth within these
softer shades of fire,

I am relieved
to make my nest
among the wild

and uncivilized—
a calling where instead
I pray for me.

A stirring in the canyon,
golden filaments of grass
parting for a pagan tribe

just before rain, skulking
corners in my brain
the light has seldom seen—

that wild connection
of throwback senses
that once meant something.

Yet I claim totems
and hang fetishes of rock
and bone while waiting.

Any man can be a star
when the ground is hard
and short of feed—

and when the crowd
clambers for relief,
any man can be a god

in certain quarters
if he can load a truck
with good alfalfa hay.

Yet the compassionate man
loathes the burden,
despises his inadequacy

to make Nature rain.
Any man can be a star,
but she’s in charge.