I look to the ridges for clarity,
for a sign of an approaching storm
gathering somewhere north—
trace silhouetted skeletons
of drought-killed oaks, branched
like Challenge Butter bucks.
As my eyes escape the first waft
of chaos and claustrophobe,
I leave my flesh to rest among
all the old cowmen with nothing to do
but watch the learning process
over and over again.
The Natives retreated to the hills,
but at the top of mountain peaks,
there’s no place left to go.
drycrikjournal 