Nothing today. No rain, but cool
perfection—no excuse
for not blooming, producing fruit.
It’s how the seasons raise us
like vegetables
on the uneven ground within
the wild, small irrigated spaces
we inhabit with routine
worn smooth by calloused hands.
We have become domestic
after all these years
of shipping truckloads to town,
watching our harvest disappear
down the road—
nothing today, but good habits.
drycrikjournal 