is a blade through the wind. From the top
of the field I'm watching clouds coming fast
over Laurel Mountain. Everything's specific
in this light – the violet shoulder of Sugarloaf
in the southern horizon, the silver roofs of barns
folded into the hills, the hard-edged shadow
of my knuckles on the page. And I'm listening
to the long sorceries of sound, the noises
of afternoon - the dog yipping and whining
at a knot of garter snakes newly-emerged
and flat-headed with fright, the rattle and thump
of the UPS van raising yellow dust, and as always
the occasional gunfire.
The wind shifts at the back of my neck,
a peeper peeps in the glittering pond,
a thick twist of pine smoke from a neighbor's fire
changes course and crosses the road. I think I hear
a woman sighing. These are the Druid spells –
just for one day, to forget everything.
The snakes lick the light and taste dog.
A man in his garage opens with his thumbnail
boxes stuffed with packets of air from China.
I'm telling you, it's a strange world.
