Epaulets on his shoulders,
I remember the cocky strut
of the redwing blackbird
beneath the grain bucket
mornings when we saddled horses,
back when we had a pond,
wild ducks and nested cattails,
but not enough water
to watch it evaporate—
and I miss them, miss the
mallards come the gloaming
on whistling feathers
with bellyflop landings
to safely spend the night.
It’s all about water.
Posted in Poems 2025, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cattails, poetry, pond, redwing blackbird, water
The place has changed
where water pooled,
ringed by cattails
at the end
of irrigated pastures
long gone brown
for rock and gravel
royalties that boomed
before the bust.
How many times
have those Mallards
risen in my mind?
My father’s words
on a Sabbath saved
from Sunday School,
an ascension
beyond religion
dripping from clouds.
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