they call it a river, this part-time creek and full-time flood channel with enough occasional water to grow an un-mowed lawn sprinkled with creosote bushes, castor bean plants, cattails and nice-looking Palo Verde tree   until a day last December when a bulldozer scraped it flat - like a chunk of skin ripped away ground squirrels and rabbits came out of their deepest dens to see the plowed stew of sand and rock, the year’s harvest gone   coyotes quickly lost the hunter’s cove

now I know why grannies’ rock by the fire to crochet and grandpas’ hands cling to steaming mugs of coffee   my fingers would cry out, but without a voice, they merely groan as I flex them on this cold cloudy morning   my first poem today will have to wait for something warm to heat my knuckles so pen on paper might create   friction and start a small fire while granny hooks the yarn and grandpa stares out the window   On days like this, how can the sun not know that it’s time

In my town, blue sky and sun warm old bones, that lay next to pools and stroll down sidewalks. It’s a two miles-per-hour lifestyle. In fact, a horse and carriage would make a charming day trip down valley, starting after a lazy 10 a.m. breakfast. You’d find the views of the mountain’s change every ten wheel bumps or so as you passed sandy farms and dry ranches, stopped around 12:30 for refreshments and water for the horses – a stable with a snack bar would be perfect – then m