Barranca

He skidded on soggy turf, as a decoy,
the rainy football days were a primal joy.
 

He was too fast to overlook on the field.
The muddy pigskin slithered loose, and wheeled
 

and thudded over grass. He raced to catch
up for a tackle, or at least to snatch
 

the ball. He dove and missed and felt the mud
splash in his pads and helmet. Rain’s quick flood
 

poured into the barranca creek. He watched
small streams appear and surge across the splotched
 

hillside and carve out sudden curving creeks
that spread out from the edge of the ravine’s peaks.
 

Lower, he leaned as if on a knife’s-edge,
he savored the water gushing from the ledge.
 

He stuck his tongue out, felt the pelting rain
tickle, and spill over his tongue to drain.