The Weber is grill still, front teeth cracked, spilled legs airing indecently on the flagstone a mark of last week’s violent spent wind our
Dog’s footprint in the muddy sidewalk here where the slab has shifted and sunk a miniature alluvial plane has grown I take yellow bucket
Controlled Burn I’ve seen park workers chivvy the flames as if herding a flock of beasts that half remember their wild past, and if