blinkless blue, relentless

bright. Even that scrim

of snow went up, not

down.  Deer hooves scuff

the hardpan, winterfat

ghosts its fancy feathers

over the field.

The ground needs a good cry.

Virga again, flirting its curtain

of almost, not-quite, maybe later,

thinks it’s beautiful

not to touch.

Our bodies, shameless

fruit. Slosh of our bellies

over stone.

Biblical,

forsaken.

Even our tears,

conserved. Branches tick.

Dumbstruck stone. Do something.