DRY CRIK Journal

It seems spring since November with
October rain and green, few frosty nights.
Just now, birds in the bare oaks practice

promising refrains, cows upcanyon quiet
with branded calves on damp, cool grass.
Not a hint of the buzz that marks the end

and we grin to one another, listen and grin
where generations have gathered, horses
tethered and irons grown cold, grinning

beneath Sulphur with a little spot of poppies
burning gold. Weathered smiles, we show
teeth and listen to our hearts howling.

                                             - for Spencer Jensen