Underground springs go on,

Evidenced by mesquite

And water pooled

In the granite draw.


She booted through the brass burrs

Behind him,

Her ropers and jeans

Brushing against the prickly pear.


There’s the rub,

He called.

Over yonder.

One monarch flew above him.


Traces of buck velvet

Lay like tufted leaves

Among the acorns

And Love grass.


She touched the smooth trunk

Rubbed dark by antlers

Aching to grow.

Bet it’s that six-point I been seein’, he said.


They made their way to the oat patch,

Hardly a track anywhere.

Too many acorns,

Too much abundance.


No need to look elsewhere

For nourishment.

We’re in for a good season.

Promise? she said.

[from Hill Country & Other Poems]


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