Dry Creek
By Cole N. Foster, Alamosa, CO
Tic, tic, tic, tic, tic – the mouse trundles his tiny trail
Just inches back of my head, on the edge of the crusty canvas wall
Of the tent Carroll bargained for at the San Diego Goodwill
And the pinpoint raindrops murmur on and on, so gentle
That the tics resound in the November naked aspen grove
Pattering back and forth, back and forth, sniffing morning
Breakfast, hoping for a minute rent in the ancient fabric
So I lie wrapped in down, not sleeping, not caring that
I’m not sleeping, but resting and warm, looking
Forward to the crisp dawn, when I’ll shoulder my
Pack and climb the steep mountain to carry out my bull
But now the mouse, the rain and the sweet musk of
Dead aspen solace my spirit in the fresh Colorado night.
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