DRY CRIK Journal

Easy now to retreat to
the eyes of animals and trees
looking out, listening

for the sounds of something
sure – something different
than games men play

for fame and power. Easy
to ignore the assonance
of empty rhetoric,

the jingle of politics or
the cacophony of promises
they cannot keep.

Easy now to hear voices past
when the wind is still, sweet
melodies off the ridges home

to forgotten gossip rocks
worn smooth – rough hands
dressed in the dust of acorns.

Easy now to see the seasons
stretch within shadows cast
upon these loyal hills, each

cycle sealed within the rings
of the solitary oaks
shedding summer’s leaves

like golden coin at their feet.
Easy to believe the ones
that have seen it all before.