Highwater debris,
enough to measure peak flow
gauging stations miss.
We’ve begun naming creeks
that flood the dry draws,
pull nominees from our histories
while exchanging guffaws.
We have become the helpless
prisoners of the weather,
of flatland floods and saturated mud,
resisting cabin fever.
Roads and fences, trees to cut,
our work comes to a halt—
no need to fuss, cows don’t need us
with water, grass and salt.
Posted in Haiku 2023, Photographs, POEMS 2023, poetry, Ranch Journal
Tagged cabin fever, Dry Creek, flood water, haiku, helpless, humility, mud, photography, poetry, rain, runoff, water, weather
The ant, his sting—
the scorpion, his horn—
the lowly on this earth
rise up, adapt.
The cactus spine,
the thistle’s quill
survive the brilliance
that has blinded us.
The coyote knows
we have never been
that exceptional,
except as providers—
making his living
knowing how we think,
then waits
to clean-up behind us.
All our wealth and power,
instant ease and comforts
feed him, yet we are starved
for something more secure
than convenient hearts
carved to hang bejeweled
around our necks
on heavy chains.
It is no secret,
we have lost
our humility,
that sense of awe
that boils us down
to nothing
of any real
significance.
for JEG
(click)
drycrikjournal 