DRY CRIK Journal

Little do we know of that ground
between the lush, iridescent hills
and that beyond them, except

it’s magical. How some days it
rains with coincidence when
we’re most vulnerable and open,

so helpless within ourselves –
powerless but to ignore the obvious.
You can feel the shuffling

of spirits, of ghosts, or angels slip
ahead to make the forgotten
connections to the old world –

set up camp and start a fire. The air
sings songs, one after another until
all harmonize to make you feel

like leaving your flesh, almost
blindly reaching out to touch
and hold what you know

very little about – like young calves
running, bucking across
the uneven green because they can.