Prized pastureland* in spring, it lay
Amidst grand stands of pine and oak;
A sponge of grass, green and tender,
An open seep, six inches deep,
And run-off rain and melted snow,
A round mile wide outstretched to crest.
By June the seep passed-on, unseen,
Vapors risen in early morns,
Thence long gone when shadows shortened.
The green grass paled and turned to tan,
Faded flaxen, stiff and brittle,
Shriveled in drought and parched and seared.
A cattle herd, along with deer,
Grazed the grasses short to stubble,
Then sought to wet throats taut with thirst.
Across the pasture round they roved,
On hard-packed paths, their heads hung low,
Snuff snuffling for a waterhole.
COPYRIGHT© 2010 Margaret Jane Jones