Nicole Stockburger

December 21st

We woke to black birds shattering
the sky with black wings
on their way south. Ecru houses
uncovered in a winter mountain.
I know I can’t be alone
in my wandering mind without wine
or excuses. Today, he graded the land
and from the icy driveway
I watched, tending to the hens, broody
but barely laying, as mud unfroze
from morning frost. Walking in the hollow,
I dug firmly in deer tracks
as if I was looking to be skinned
and dragged home. By the creek:
a grizzled cat, pile of blue-
brown glass, two busted lighters, Ball jars,
and what looked like limestone.
The wind tasted metal
in my mouth. Later, lights off, I sprawl
on the wood floor, pass the ruby
bottle back to him, and I understand
this partial darkness well: stars flashing
blinded windows, wildfire flames
somewhere in the high country, hunters
on our land edging closer
with shotgun-gleam in their eyes.