DRY CRIK Journal

Long-haired horses watch the house
exhale smoke that spills off eaves –
taste oak and manzanita, listening
for the screen door’s slap awake.

Gentle nickers with each step closer,
they fidget and angle for the first flake
of alfalfa to shatter in their feeder,
while the bay horse waits with hoof at rest

on the bottom rung of his own gate.
At twenty-six, he knows my walk
has slowed, no less impatient
than I made him. Looking back

from the barn, the house breathes.
Through its eyes I can see you moving –
feel all the years compressed into one
sure moment of belonging here.

Feeding with Grandpa