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
There is danger. There is the orange tea stain of his old vest, a day of missiles loaded & shed. A thousand creeds dropping