You’re so light, sister bird-foot, you gust and whistle up hill and down the side I can’t quite see, where the ridges resurrect the
after Yeats I’m getting up soon, and going to the lake, where my father’s cabin leans toward the north, more chinks between the logs
Post horse-kick to the knee, post-election, I still take to the trail on foot. An hour a day in the woods, two miles tops,