It’s running again, that irrigation ditch
curving through our property,
a combination of snow melt
and a purposeful opening of the head gate.
We know it‘s spring though,
how can we not know,
what with the randy birds
and the tulip/jonquil foray?
It’s like the first time we stood here,
though so much has happened
in the time between,
it’s like the first time,
maybe seven or eight years,
i.e. there’s no colt along the fence
up on its hooves hollering next to the meadow
turning green and grass tall,
but it seems the meadow’s waiting
just like we are, leaning
over the railing of the deck,
you brushing back colored hair,
mesmerizing down at the swirling water.
The wind’s so forceful off the mountains
your voice’s beginning to fade,
beginning to be nearly inaudible
as on a tape recording in the 1960’s,
so much so I can hear myself saying
what I always have wanted to say
as your voice is drifting off into….
well, a whole philosophy,
something very simple
such as the loud sound of rushing water.
As always, though, it’s the smell:
water, air, mountain, clover,
so strong up our nostrils
we shiver and push away,
almost but not yet in heat.