DRY CRIK Journal

Each step deliberate, if not delicate, the time –
I trust it was not wasted on dreams alone,
sweet butterfly, that you felt a fleeting glimpse
of grace move closer to your soul. How you must
envy deer, now. Was it the chase? The Challenge
butter buck, manzanita-headed, your neck thick
with testosterone, or could you smell him over the next
rise, taste his liver first? It does not matter now.

Buck’s bunkhouse for old cowboys, one of those
self-sufficient, Texas oil well spreads with a few
horned cows and gentle horses, tack room full of bits
and stories and a few young men come round to visit –
not some bed, not four white walls and a hospital gown.
Better a shade tree for old bulls to predict the weather,
play dominos and watch the landscape haze away.

The old horse wants to go, watches each knee buckle
to read direction – knows it, feels it, wants it just enough
to glide across the ground. See some country. See some cows.