DRY CRIK Journal

I barely remember the man
who built the barns
tourists still stop to photograph,

his face now gone – rough-cut fir
in the rafters, mangers worn by horses,
their galvanized tin given-in to rust.

How fragile he must have been
here raised to live on the edge
of unimproved and steep ground

clear to Generals Sherman and Grant,
and beyond the Kaweahs and Kern
for just a few horses and cows.

We’ll never know his nightmares
nor how he notched and set the timbers
squared and measured in his dreams.

Inside dry, they weather storms
and the demons of changing times.
Lasting secrets only barns can tell.