Pressing hard up a hill in the drizzling dusk,
storm-colored doves spaced on a wire
between the transformers,
road water roostering into my face,
grackles swirl up from the stubble
to circle the red-roofed white church
against the clumped gray sky,
a train in the valley promising more rain.
Should I ride more miles toward night?
Will it help me feel better after refusal?
What has happened to supporting the arts?
The train echos No, No, No,
but down the other side I sail,
mud in my mouth, headed for crows
bitching after an owl in the swale,
in a narrative mood, far from lyric.
