The things you notice:

the perfect swerve of road,

the perfect swell.


The hush

quick flush

of birds in a lilac tree.

Sprigs, the catcher of quills

and wind, will carry both 

before Sunday

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.