DRY CRIK Journal

After sixty years on the same ground,
a man talks out loud, listens to the timbre
of his thoughts tossed in space, ricochet off
rock piles to settle in the dust and grass –
a discussion among friends. No one cares
if spider overhears, or snake escapes
attention, the trees know who I am.

Saluting hawks and nodding to bullfrogs
holding court in warm stock ponds
is more natural than polite as I pass,
like complimenting the mother of a good
calf, yet not the same as talking just
to yourself, hanging options like clothes
on branches, to see which way to go next.