DRY CRIK Journal

Soft blanket of violet, vermillion trim
mending ragged rips of blue as dawn’s
white fire smolders along the ridge again,

splotches of poppies wait to wrap
green slopes with gold above the flats
of forget-me-nots like skiffs of snow

in the still and silent chill before
the birds begin to stir beneath the eaves
of another April Sabbath buzzing

with the deafening hum of making love
and feeding babies. The low and quiet
glide of a pair of ravens in the half-light

remind of itinerant reverends counting
heads before their sermon starts in earnest –
before the wild hymns whine with spring.