WRITTEN BY: Don E. Thompson
North of Goyenetche Dairy
Tule reeds at the end of the last season
allotted to them, long dormant,
lie in a heap as if shredded:
Maybe a Yokut ghost,
musty with bad memories
and without much to look forward to
except spring,
who spent the winter
picking all of her baskets to pieces,
has given up and moved on,
just a week or so too soon.
**
Seventh Standard Road
These dormant pistachio saplings
no thicker than my little finger
haven’t yet put on
their second coat of leaves.
Nevertheless, one of them
has snagged a tumbleweed
twice its size, ending
an uninhibited cross-country jaunt…
I identify with rooted things
but admit that must be
disconcerting to anyone
who shares its wanderlust.
**
Stockdale Horse Ranch
After mildly acidic rain
last night with pumice gray
clouds tumbling by,
the sky’s clear. Though faded,
frayed at the edges
where it snagged the ridgeline,
and stained by haze,
it’s somehow comforting—
comfortable: like a worn-out
stone-washed denim shirt
you know you ought to toss,
but keep wearing anyway.
**
Ecological Reserve, Brandt Road
The brittle, dead scrub’s scattered seed
will take root and wait
patiently until the rain comes.
No matter how late or how sparse,
it’s always enough
for plants with such low expectations.
They’ll make the most,
as we will, of an uncertain,
fly-by-night spring
before they all turn gray
and die, slowly loosening
their death grip on their own seed.
**