2000/drycreek

DRY CREEK

I cross the dry creek bed,
where the long roots were exposed
by last year’s hard rains.
Too long ago to even remember.
Over head, high in the eucalyptus,
a flock of crows
punctures the morning quiet.
A perfect January day,
so clear it tingles.
And still the crows complain.
Three times on my short walk
I have had to arrest myself
from the same tendency.
“No need to judge,”
I nudge myself along, caaaw.
Caaaw. Caaaw.

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