When the rains come right
and knee-deep green feed hides
beneath Fiddleneck in the flats,
we forget the bare, baked slopes
cut by dusty cow trails plunging
to the murmur of the diesel truck
spilling alfalfa flakes the length
of undressed pastures—lost bawling
calves and slow thin cows.
So blessed to have disremembered
the lean dry times, we believe
the miracle is normal, that Hera
and her daughters will set-up camp
and stay a fruitful future for man
and beast, creeks in the canyons—
a tangible fantasy for the thriving
when the rains come right
to change our way of thinking.
drycrikjournal 