and what is left soaks slow and silent
into ground and green; thin fog hovers
above dips and hollows in ghostly drifts.
Last month's pollen floats atop puddles,
skims of yellow that will birth nothing but
mosquitoes. Young crocus struggle to keep
their water-limp heads erect on slender stems.
The hounds, lured from their runs, lie slack
in the grass and glean their hides for tics
with tongues patched black by bloodline.
They watch passing clouds with hooded eyes.
The river is troubled; mud-stirred and thick
with deadfall loosed by the storms' hectic dance.
Two men sit the bank and bait hooks with shrimp;
they tap it along the bottom, music for blind bass.
It's rained for days. Days of rain and somewhere
beyond the wood's edge, stands of birch unfold
silver leaves against a lifting fog, their opened
canopies throw shadows beneath a promised sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment