DRY CRIK Journal

Waking to listen for rain in the dark,
for even a whisper upon the metal roof –
straining to see what can’t be heard

is normal from October to April,
despite night forecasts and maps of
computer models in living color,

in every farm house beyond town
well-before the lights come on
like clockwork – like a religion

connecting pagan souls shivering
under bear hides, underground
and waiting for the perfect season.

The drought in 1976 and ‘77
thinned the cowherd to match
what little grass the hillsides had –

they licked the clay and lived on seeds
with whatever kind of hay we could find.
One after another, the warm rains came

all spring long, covered the slopes with
sheets of solid gold. Nora Montgomery
pushing 100, played with native children

somewhere near Pogue Canyon, said
she couldn’t remember another year
with so many California poppies.

Worst and best, back to back,
Ralph Merhten admonished my delight,
reminding strong feed can’t coexist

with wildflowers, that the business
boils down to pounds of flesh – yet
we still harbor wild dreams of color.

A beautiful day to begin the New Year, clear blue sky, snow upcanyon peeking over Dry Creek’s greening ridges from Redwood Mountain in the Sequoia National Forest – Rose Parade mumbling in the background – Pasadena exceptionally clear as California awaits a forecast 4-7 days of rain.