Dry rocks The riverbed is packed with tight, white water, folded over the gray rocks; like the ducks that slip on frozen ponds, the snow has come to try a summer life in solid winter. Like that warm March morning I led you up a different riverbed where I’d seen a snake looped stiff around the rocks. We watched it basking, absorbing sunlight in the still-chilled air. I poked it from three feet back and it slowly jerked back, eventually remembering to react. Even its tail tip castanets clacked slow. It took a few more pokes before it thawed and flowed down the bed, disappearing into the thirsty rocks. And now you too have limply slipped within the earth. Come, time. I’ve grown tired of pretending to be warm here. Bring spring and melt these milky bones. Let me, too, pass into the ice-packed crust.
Trials of modernity It’s gross how impolite some trees can be, which choose to ossify their butts instead of withering when axes chop their tops. They hang around like thirsty Maya hydras, headless serpents feathered with a mass of grass that sways too close to the bark stone to be mown. The American-grafted Hercules must seize his wedge-headed club and carve around the bound beast to hack off its other heads, which spread beneath his bluegrass and azaleas, then chain the rigid arbor necks and flex the legs of Augeas’ entire herd under his Chevy’s hood to tear out the ringed relic, then treat the grave of Gaia as a proper hole: fill it level, shake out new seed, watch the perfect lawn awake.
Scott Darrington is a small-town Nevada deserter currently living in Utah who writes mostly about the little things that happen in life, the small comforts and frustrations (especially those of humanity and nature pushing on each other) that pile together to make life what it is. He hopes that his writing can help people to appreciate the things that make up everyday life. He writes mostly in blank verse or small, cobbled-together constructions. He has been published by BYU’s Americana and Leading Edge magazines, Utah Life Magazine, the Utah Horror Writers Association, and the lovely Provo Poemball machines.