by Barbara Swift Brauer
Winter, San Geronimo
They are walking dry footed
on the bottom of Nicasio Reservoir.
Rocks in the silent creek jut
like the ribs of a starving horse.
The fish ladder is a skeleton of concrete.
The salmon do not come.
These short winter days, the sun
clicks on like a furnace, clicks off.
The frost forms on the windows, the dying
rhodies, ice in the unemptied bucket.
They are walking dry footed
on the bottom of the reservoir.
Up on the ridge the worried hikers
pass with a guilty stride. The road
beneath their feet, scrabble
and treacherous footing.
Scrub jay, towhee and robin
scratch open the dry soil in the yard.
The new moon fattens in a cloudless sky
rests in the bare branches of the oak.
They are walking dry footed.
The salmon do not come.