IDES OF MARCH 2008
Random script of bad news, a network spin
of possibilities, a click away to cyberspace
waiting in the dark for a promised shower.
Clay crust hard beneath the filaree, long
needles reach between plumes of fiddlenecks –
each head’s arch of golden horns trumpeting
the sweet equilibrium that may
hinge on dawn’s gray cloak up canyon.
No wind upon fresh green oak leaves –
the Hereford’s idly graze first light, nurse
fat calves among the forget-me-nots, white
bellies deep, it seems, in drifts of snow.
Two bulls bellow through a fence
half-a-mile across the creek away,
pace and paw to protect this moment
that eclipses memory of any other – each
nanosecond stretches into eternity as
each molecule reaches for a trace of rain.