DRY CRIK Journal

Clouds hang in the foothills at first light, riding the ridges in a slow counter-clockwise movement. I hear the creek in the dark. With nearly an inch in the gauge, it began raining midday yesterday and gently through the night. It seems like years since the Central Valley foothills have been targeted by storms, this week’s series overlooked by the Old Farmers Almanac that has been fairly accurate thus far this season. As near as I can tell from NOAA, the ‘Big One’s’ due this afternoon.

She pounds the tin roof
to eagerly explain
her absence
& wakes me
from erotic dreams
to dance naked by the window
dripping in the sunless light.
She then sprints wildly to the creek
that begins to stretch
            as I stare
            past the last ridgeline
            that melts into the gray.

I ignore her wetness
            except for curious sideglances
            I steal
            angrily.
            She may excite me
            to forgiveness
            to some barbaric lovemaking
but I cannot forget
the drought.

                      from “Hung Out to Dry” (1992)