First rain
the gophers clean their houses,
stack tailings high
where the Great Blues wait,
stand like statues,
like soldiers across the pasture
for the slightest movement
of well-worked mounds
to stab a meal—then toss it up,
catch open-beaked
and let it slide
down a snaky neck.
My father loved them,
loved the fact
they were working for him.
drycrikjournal 