Another cold dry front
rests upon the tops of hills,
shapeless clouds, a haze
upon steep south slopes,
red clay like brick—
green pales to gray
as we brand calves
one by one
we may sell early
with their mothers.
I brace against the familiar
drama, growing numb
as my stiff new rope
slides through the palm
of time’s softened hand,
warming as it searches
for my frayed
wrapped-cotton horn.
I quote my elders
dead and gone
as they visit
the branding pen.
Don’t worry, Dofflemyer,
E. J.’d say.
It’s gonna rain.
It takes years to get here
with cows we like—
unwritten contracts
they understand
as we discuss
our options
of who goes first
and who gets what’s left
of hay.
Of the two of us,
I am the dreamer
and believer—
a luxury
you have allowed me
facing facts
as I grow gray.
for Robbin
drycrikjournal 