Walking with Pat on Her Ranch

We ascend the hill where grasses give
way to packed earth and scrub-pine.

You tell me these acres are being sold, a drought
deal to ranchers. You regret low clouds,

but I know even the mist on our faces is the wet
breath of God. Scent of pitch as you recount

the dry valley history. If I could give
you anything, it would be rain—a long dance

of drops on your rooftop, mudding these pastures.
Since I can’t turn fog to downpour, I promise

to remember this day, will press the red leaves
you’ve plucked into my dictionary, remember

you here with your poems distinct as pitch or horse sweat,
words working against foreclosure, blazing as desert grass.