Waiting

Gray clouds hover, descending slower than time itself.
A pale wash of blue has been laid over the gray as quiet as a whisper
diminishing the hope of snow,
waiting for the north wind to cool its masses.

Fence lines stretch away as if blown by the wind.
Few cattle gather in pastures this time of year.
The fence anticipates and waits for
returning cows and new calves.

Old gray hay stackers planted among the big bluestem,
bold against the landscape,
wait for spring meadows.
They will wait forever, replaced by progress.

Grasping at the racing wind, salt grasses
surround an icy marsh pond that naps in the valley,
waiting for the return of
watery ripples, mallards, gadwalls, and woodies.

The valley snuggles between two sloping sand hills -
protectors, triumphant in their dead golden splendor.
Spring creeks refuse to flow.
Cottonwoods bare and exposed, beaten by the wind
stop whispering the history of time.
They wait for new rains and the sun's warmth renewed.