DRY CRIK Journal

                      Stand on your shore, old stone, be still while the
                      Sea-wind salts your head white.
                           - Robinson Jeffers, (“Watch the Lights Fade”)

Gray day,
grandfather oaks reach
with strong arms and leathery fingers
to catch the sun –
            a slow posing frozen
through centuries of seasons
on an elliptical track
to outlive the bickering of small birds,
            the raven’s escape
            or the ravenous eye
            of the dark hawk at dawn.

Now the color of sweet caramel,
near slopes of bleached dry feed
            melt into the creek,
into the string of sycamores burning
            after a freeze –
white limbs aflame without a storm.

Older than emotion,
cold granite teetering,
keep your naked secrets
and let the lichen hide
on your dark side.