Between here and the road, the intermittent
sound of summer cars across blond pastures,
fat black cows grazing, lazing in shadows—
a gentle world where coyotes pass and pause
for a squirrel, a bobcat trains her babies,
and crows raid bird nests for their own.
Snake bit, your mother’s inside dog is gone
to meet her, yet I still leave the sticky door
ajar, listen while I dress for his awakening.
Between here and the road, we see what we want,
watch naked skeletons of oaks come alive, and
long-limbed sycamores dance in an orgiastic tangle.
We can feel these hillsides breathe, hear
the heartbeat underneath. Not since the natives
has this place told so many stories.
