DRY CRIK Journal

First the windmill, then the salt house
folded into the earth below the old road
that followed the creek around the hill.

Board pens gone for pipe corrals, I still
look off between calves stretched
for marking – to inhale the calm

across the canyon, mountain steep
clear into the sky. My years know now
how to welcome something

that can’t be seen – to breathe deeply,
thank God and build another loop
to hold the moment a little longer.

                                           for Jody