NOVEMBER SABBATH
Dawn low in the south
almost gold on the dry,
east slabs stacked upcanyon,
still too early
to pray for rain.
Barns half-gone,
one hundred fifty tons
of hundred sixty-five dollar hay
in three months
bucked to the truck
and spread to the hills
like offerings
to hungry gods.
The cows wait now
for the diesel�s purr
with growthy calves
that pull them down
ten days before
we put the bulls out.
Long, crisp shadows of sycamores
reach across the dusty horse lot,
I put my finger on the point of Sulphur Peak
despite the forecasts on every local channel
promising perfection for a week �
good news
as a storm brews
somewhere close.