This calf was only a couple of hours old this morning to its 2 year-old mother. Both have the necessary instincts to survive. She has carried it for nine months and now it’s learning to trust her instructions as she heads to the feed grounds, it trailing behind, before we intercepted them with a couple of flakes of hay near a shade tree. All’s well.
A series of seasons unfolding,
we chase the sun, pray for rain,
year after year—no two the same
in this canyon that sustains us,
trains habits and hones senses
into instincts like horses have,
like the wild wears with first breath
until the last for generations
in the same place—we know
this hard, yet resilient, ground:
clay and decomposing granite
dust mixed like concrete
with green seeds, given rain.
Waiting we become the place
and praise its perseverance.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2015
Tagged generations, instincts, perseverance, place
drycrikjournal 