In The Dry Riverbed

I wrote a new poem today. It's rather simple:

In the Dry Riverbed

I wish someone was here with me,

seeing and hearing and feeling

as I see and hear and feel with the waters of my soul

now in this dry riverbed not far from my home,

where the swaying reeds,

the praying bushes,

and the clumpy, loose sand below

live on after the river's death. 

I wish I could have heard

someone else's gravel-steps crunching with mine 

along the levee trail,

our eyes squinting because of the ever-bursting sun,

which still hangs low now in the California sky,

looking like a Mexican gold poppy

or an exploding orange.

Up ahead, across the dry river's waist,

and beyond its embankment,

I see steep, green hills lying in delighted rest,

still tickled by light and wind.

Newborn grass, sprouting

from the rains a week ago,

cloak its round shoulders and hips.

And at one end,

a herd of solid brown cows dot the hill-side,

their heads all bowed low to the ground.

I can hardly tell if they are moving at all

in their slow-going graze.

I look down,

a black beetle slowly passes me by,

an oval-shaped stranger unconcerned 

with my bulky presence

and unannounced visit to his home.

He startles me with his alien approach.

Its tiny, insect feet sink into the sand

as it awkwardly makes its way out to find

firmer ground.

Finally, somewhere in the bushes

I hear crickets chirping in a charismatic chant,

and hidden birds are ending their wispy songs of the day

before the sun completely fades from their marble eyes 

and their tucked-in wings,

and 

I

am 

here alone,

sitting very still on a river-ridden log,

wishing someone was here with me.