ONE FALL SABBATH EARLY
October goes quicker than November waiting
for the first rain, less dusty than December praying
for the second, most years feeding too much hay
to keep the cows in shape sucking baby calves.
Sweet abbreviated days not cold enough to cut dry oak
as sycamores turn color, when teasing wind gusts
rush like water through their brittling leaves.
Every sign now seems symbolic as the sun sinks south,
as natives wake from crisp shadows growing longer.
The coyote’s dry head the dog drug in, forever
severed from its wandering, relocated to the saddle
in Belle Point with silent apology – but not for the bullet,
dropped mid-stride among the calvy Herefords.
A man must be right with his world for a rain here,
respectful and reasonable, lend a hand when he can
to the spirits as well as his neighbor, find voice
among those stalking his periphery, chant and sing
before it gets too cold for the grass to get growing.
