Rumors take wings,
names and places change,
swirl up and down canyons
like sycamore leaves
before the dark clouds come
to settle things for awhile.
Mouths full of dust,
we didn’t talk much
in the dry years
looking out and up
when we weren’t scratching
for grass and water.
Since she’s returned with rain,
the hills grin green
and reach to embrace us,
calling cows and calves
to the ridge tops.
The phone rings from town:
“was it a lion or bear
killed five or seven horses
on Cottonwood or Dry Creek?
I hear the Fish and Game…”
trails off in monotone.
All I know: it wasn’t here.
drycrikjournal 