Any Harvest by Hank Blackwell

Any Harvest

by Hank Blackwell

I walk the remote hills

under my hat,

shaded from

a piercing summer sun.

Dust rises with each footstep

over dry mounds

of gray cheatgrass

waiting for rain.

I am alone here,

a mixed blessing…

complete freedom

fills one pocket,

the other remains empty…

I stay busy –

building, repairing

coaxing the baked earth

and myself

not to die…

waiting, impatiently,

for a harvest

of any kind….