Breaking early without the lingering
after-rain clouds camped upon ridges
of damp clay and granite turned green,
fractured blinding light claims November
flesh glistening from branch to twig,
dripping jewels, millions of diamonds
sparkling across the flats and we are rich
and shivering, warming deadened scars
around coffee cups to share the moment.
My pagan sunrise hangs over the black ridge
reaching for the saddle this side of Sulphur
Peak with blinding light, this native place
where women healed themselves—to endure
this longest day of hundred degree heat.
Each day shorter, we move with confidence
towards October, imagine gusts beneath
dark clouds that bring the storm gods closer
to bless this dry and dusty dirt with rain.
Coffee and cigarettes in the cold outside,
counting cattle on the hillside, black dots
on green, we wait for the sun to rise—
to break through the fringe skeletons
of oaks atop the ridge with blinding shards
of light. I lean into the shadow of the post
that holds the beam and roof together,
edging north towards the Solstice
most mornings in December, unless
it’s raining blurry streaks of gray
from a dark sky. Half-dressed sycamores
await the creek to run again, flash bare limbs
before the dancing tangle of nymphs
and hobgoblins. In the middle of a miracle,
I am awash with it while staying dry.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014, Ranch Journal
Tagged Blue Oak, Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, rain, sunrise, sycamores, weather
Dawn bears down early,
sears flesh exposed,
blinds eye and mind
into a fuzzy daze,
fiery-white as hell
must be. We plod
slowly with heads bowed
to mantras of water
keeping the living alive.
Like cattle, we bed with
welcome breezes moving
shade to shade.