The hollow sounds before daylight,
hillside Roadrunners awakening in the black,
their plaintive solos, reverberating notes
awaiting an answer, a location, a place
to be filled in the future, a pile of twigs
within the spines of cactus
beneath this soft comforter of clouds,
days trailing a meager rain to shield us
and the dew upon the grass.
The day is yet empty, moments awaiting
purpose and order. In my mind, I see
the tools I’ll need to be useful.
drycrikjournal 