How I crave the feel
of an old soft rope
in my hand,
spoke-balance loop
like an open mouth
hungry for heels
in the branding pen.
Fifty years
I’ve marked calves
on this spot,
chicken-coop corrals:
bog in the gate
that Giz built:
hog wire stapled
over a 2 x 6 rectangle
I drug through the mud—
replaced and almost forgotten.
It’s hard to let go:
same horseback look
south down-canyon,
creek meandering a bowl
of fresh green feed,
safe and apart
from a hazy world
beyond the narrows—
the feel of my rope
among neighbors
roping calves around a fire—
reliving a dream
on a borrowed horse.
drycrikjournal 