Hoof and nail, standing
Mailboxes hint
there’s a living to be made in idle chewing—
the dappled-
cream and spotted, black—none too fancy,
none so different that
I think of taking on a path
going elsewhere but along these fields and pastures
stitched with trees and hidden
driveways, the grass
oblivious to fences.
A barn door opens. Hay makes hay. I make up colors:
graymarine pearledblue palesence.
See how the vane’s a fickle swiveling?