Two coyotes lope across the road in the rain
in their retreat from the swollen creek, roaring
like prolonged thunder distantly—unafraid
for they are fat on rodents curled in flooded
burrows, tailings fresh. The herons and egrets
will appear with the sun, stand guard like statues
in garden nurseries look alive. Too wet to fly,
the sheltered hawks in the limbs of leafless trees
will spread their wings until their feathers dry.
And we too wait. Some days it’s too wet—
too hot, too cold, or too dry to work—but once
in a while it makes more sense just to behold.
drycrikjournal 