in the trees, and finches flicking
millet from the feeder. This late in spring,
the thin smoke whips from chimneys
a mile away.
We rock and watch the dawn,
bulb beyond the clouds. Is all
spring a barker's promise of warmth?
bloomed weeks ago, awnings of green
The red oaks bulge, about to burst. Sleet
thousands of clocks ticking in our sleep.
We take turns
leaving the scene with both mugs
to the kitchen
for more, draining the urn,
steam bending as we straighten rugs
back through forty years of furniture,
sleet beating a mute tattoo,
the old oaks
wet and dark out to the pasture,
sleet on the
steers' flat backs, bowing to dawn
always grass and blocks of salt,
the sky nothing
they ever watch, no matter what falls,
cattle can't endure. We rock
and sip in
silence, chairs turned to the porch,
far away, knowing whatever force
no one could stop, not even us.
© by Walt