On and off the trail
they’ve learned to work together
and with us as well.
We dream of coasting
into a ripe green pasture
that wants for nothing.
Ripe April grasses
bellyhigh on the leaders
blind below their knees.
Mothers and babies,
pastoral dreams cross the green
with girls a horseback.
Stretched across the creek
for looks like herding humans,
not stampedes or floods.
Bowl full of croakers
deafening some dark spring night
with endless love songs.
No babysitter,
black night ours to navigate
like coyotes and owls.
Despite politics,
we all have work to do like
making rain repairs.
Smoking curlicues,
dancing citronella flame—
evening mosquitoes.
No doubt about it,
high-tech’s forecast proven true
with red sky at dawn.
