—for Ron Koertge and signs and abominations and what we were born for, dogs bouncing the fields—cur, mutt, stray. When we find a few
Birdsong, the tossed lasso uncoils note by frayed note, singing— birdshot, and a smudge scared-up into powdered air—wet feathers in high grass, wet feathers
1. The days, burned clean by heat, gather like cattle underneath the trees, look around in calm and great fatigue. We listen to the