The gray young of the year huddle still under a tender shrub, long ears at ease along the fur of their dun backs, dumb
When what was tumbling became tumbled, kissed and glistened there. When the sunset on the mountain pressed close what hadn’t been. When the gloaming
It is March, and your grass has just returned. You are green, but nothing like your lush August self— full of daisies, periwinkle, Black-eyed