The things you notice:
the perfect swerve of road,
the perfect swell.
of birds in a lilac tree.
Sprigs, the catcher of quills
and wind, will carry both
across the bellowing yard.
The fat robin stares
from a brown patch of grass;
the absolute blue of her eggs
hangs in the rot of cottonwood.
Its nest sways like a decision
yet to be made.
The constant call of the owl;
my heart is found in that dusky echo
from limb to limb.
A response is pending, for now.
The horse lifts his ears
to the muted work of a mouse
one leaf of alfalfa deep.
The blind, pink baldness of more
are soon discovered by cats and coons,
and the horse will whinny into the porous night
to wish they melt away.
Against the fence I stand,
steadying the rhythm of a metal message
across wired barbs in the zephyr of spring;
the combination is cacophonous and shrill.
The pliers in my gloved hand work
to set each free,
and the liberated “No Trespassing” sign
rubs its blithesome rust into my covered palms.