Winter, San Geronimo 
  
 They are walking dry footed 
 on the bottom of Nicasio Reservoir.
  
 Rocks in the silent creek jut
 like the ribs of a starving horse. 
  
 The fish ladder is a skeleton of concrete. 
 The salmon do not come.
  
 These short winter days, the sun 
 clicks on like a furnace, clicks off.
  
 The frost forms on the windows, the dying 
 rhodies, ice in the unemptied bucket. 
  
 They are walking dry footed
 on the bottom of the reservoir.
  
 Up on the ridge the worried hikers
 pass with a guilty stride. The road
  
 beneath their feet, scrabble
 and treacherous footing. 
  
 Scrub jay, towhee and robin
 scratch open the dry soil in the yard. 
  
 The new moon fattens in a cloudless sky
 rests in the bare branches of the oak.
  
 They are walking dry footed. 
 The salmon do not come.