Checking fencelines, no stream in particular
The fierce rains of a Wallowa spring
have washed away our sins –
the roadway, too, or mostly.
It is a nameless creek that divides us.
As we feared: That new meander
could mean controversy.
This is serious business, calling
for long looks and slow words.
Ignoring us, insects tend the soggy banks.
Who owns what, now? We’ll refuse
to ask it, and in our silence,
unfestered freedom lies.
With wirepullers, without hard words,
we fence a crooked new geography.
Grandfather rights will come, in time.
ditch witchery Poems and photo by Kathy Bowman.
to flow or not to flow - who will win?
it is just a ditch. simple, practical. not
much to it. who would think
there would be fistfights over it?
the wetting of the West is already
underway, and we spin that water
into gold, though the flow itself cries out,
"I am not the golden egg, I swear."
Joseph, Oregon
