Epaulets on his shoulders,
I remember the cocky strut
of the redwing blackbird
beneath the grain bucket
mornings when we saddled horses,
back when we had a pond,
wild ducks and nested cattails,
but not enough water
to watch it evaporate—
and I miss them, miss the
mallards come the gloaming
on whistling feathers
with bellyflop landings
to safely spend the night.
It’s all about water.
drycrikjournal 