Thirsty ground sucks the sky, leaving that brittle


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.






Even our tears,


conserved. Branches tick.


Dumbstruck stone. Do something.