Out of the black insides of a cow,
the crooked line of dawn’s horizon
reorients my place in the world
as a coyote draws the dogs’ bark—
a constant game without me.
By day, the overflow spills up the road,
herds of top-packed SUVs
following cops on a pot bust,
military-style: well-spaced, single file
like prairie schooners. Old eyes
search the darkness for the familiar
ground that has yet to change.
drycrikjournal 