Photo by Christopher Raley

Composite

I am from drought
when the lake sinks low enough
to purloin green gloaming views
of steeple and market remaining
where the dam had submerged them.

I am from rain,
rain of such a torrent’s
long awaited fall
it ricochets off pavement
into mist rising.

I am from sky.
Combustive thrust
or soaring wings, always
I am fated to the airstrip
and the valley’s soft belly
cradles a weeping head of frustration.

I am from the interstate
cutting a narrow groove
in ancient risen stone,
the high pass of the Siskiyous
barren on the tipping point of faith.

Long distance semis
slouch on the shoulders —
hauling north or hauling south.
A driver stamps feet against
cold wind funneled through the vice.
He kicks the last tire’s pressure and stares
squint-eyed down possibilities of decline.