All of the young bucks
know their place and wait
for business to pick up—
for the boss to be gone
with work of his own
calling him away, far
enough that he won’t know
what they’re up to.
They spar a little, rattle
thin horns, bide their time
in the thick of November—
like it’s always been.
Posted in Photographs, Poems 2014
Tagged deer, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, riparian, sycamores, water, wildlife, young bucks
December 28, 2013
Shedding a few leaves early, the sycamores
have begun to turn, quit taking water,
teasing me with peeks of more alabaster flesh
at a distance—first moves before the sway
of winter’s naked dance along the creek—
sandy cobbles like rafts of human skulls now.
On my morning circle of first-calf mothers,
I check the spots where water rises first
behind the granite dikes beneath damp sand
and short-cropped green as if I might
hurry time, escape into the future cool and wet
and wait like a rabbit for tortoise to catch up.
Posted in Photographs
Tagged Drought, Dry Creek, photographs, poetry, sycamores, time, water, weather
drycrikjournal 