DRY CRIK Journal

Slow steps across distance growing
shorter, oak shade with springs leaking
out of the ground, cracks in the granite

savored now with the first breath drawn
by men, men and women, children after
children becoming part of the same

moment, a millisecond or so, back.
Their songs still linger here, echo
in the canyons, grow to the dark side

of rocks like velvet moss refreshed
by rain or grin defiantly with the lichen –
sparks of fire back towards the sun.

I don’t need to understand the words –
the song is enough – an old melody
holding ground just off the road.