My mother crouches at the end of the pier with a serrated knife, cutting into the flesh of a stingray my cousin gigged by
—for Lyn Hopper When I wake too early and hope and wait for more sleep, and dawn, a coyote, sneaks up on eloquent birds,
Spring again, and without discrimination, pollen lands on leaf, earth, house, truck and road, and I am off kilter with glory as it crowns