DRY CRIK Journal

Follow the shiny track, unroll thoughts
atop the dust dulled by an autumn shower,
after the quail coveys danced the sun down

and left for the trees. She stopped here,
turned, looked back frozen for awhile –
replayed it all until it did not matter,

could not hold her still, then moved on.
She does not know what drives her away
from the others, to a safe and private place

with shade she knows she can ruminate
in peace. The landscape within the print
is delicate, each fragile ridge and valley

erode with every breath of a breeze –
grains of dust like boulders become unstuck
and roll into landslides – she is close.

I see generic possibilities, black silhouettes
against dry, yellow grasses or hidden within
a tangle of faded, fallen limbs – head bent

to the ground or still down struggling. Slow
into the canyon, I search the familiar, look
for the flick of an ear or little one, up sucking.