Seventy-five days old
the last time a full moon moved
through the shortest night:
1948—I wake at two to see
wild oats blond on sloping walls
as the dogs bark in the distance
on coyote business, like always.
Dry years in the San Joaquin,
Dad shipped thin steers in the rain
when I was born, bought some more
to feed on green into July
I can’t imagine possible, but
we stayed the droughts, like always,
in a canyon I’ve never left
for long—nowhere calling,
no other place to claim my tears
of sweat and blood, sentiments scattered
on dry ground like leaves of poetry.
drycrikjournal 