DRY CRIK Journal

The balance of all things, even
the south slopes turning brown in spring –
cattle early in the day to mottled shade
of leafless trees looks like the last line, yet
the finches and the bullfrogs don’t believe
it’s over. No red chests parade the railing

with a love song, no mess of stems spilling
from the rafters, not one bold croak to start
the cacophonous chorus from the cattails,
no deafening hum of bugs and bees
busy in the morning’s steam of dew
up from the shadowed, canyon grasses.

High in the granite beneath the ridges,
small fires of persistent poppies burn
white gold, and in the flats, thin skiffs
of forget-me-nots bolt and melt away.
Spring blues: even the green’s gone gray.
Fingertips raw, I find the chords

to a slow-thumping strum and moan
outside alone to release the churning –
all the guttural inequities within me
into the gloaming and let the rhythm
of the deep sounds hold the beat
of an old dry chant my lungs have found.

On the move, coyote and bobcat gods
pause in their tracks, the old oaks listen
politely amused for they are sure
as the hillsides grinning in the evening -
of all things - that they will endure,
even the feral howl of a human being.