Quiet and still, nothing on the narrow road
before dawn, the birds are sleeping in
on your birthday, hills genuflecting
where heifers graze the dry creek bed,
a moment frozen from our beginning
before the barns, fences and a herd of cows
to be proud of. How we howled in the dark
through the open window, challenged the coyotes,
let the empty canyon know we were here to stay.
All these years on your birthday, too busy
to count them, too busy to care,
too happy to have it any other way.
drycrikjournal 