Like poetry over whiskey, neighbors
in from feeding, first day of two-fourteen,
glasses raised to the native cows and daughters

we prize in hard times. Another language
where words roll near the edge of vulgarity
and descriptive gerundives ricochet around

the kitchen like ice rattling our empty glasses.
But always the allusion of something more
that holds us to this ground, this watershed

we can’t shake, yet celebrate daily
for as long as we can. Crass and basic lines
I try to remember, steal for a poem

in the morning—always another way
of looking—seeing that it is
no small miracle, this earth adapting.

                                                            for Craig and Ronnelle

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