a smear of dirty mountain on the long horizon
a smell of bitter smoke, an early chill

from a peeling sky, a shameful and beautiful light
a bird that never tires of its call

shadow on the page, gradations of
and on the old and naked sycamore, tiny flowers break

robins run and stand, a sideways glance
the grass for thickness and for all directions

graceful breezes go on through
it's Tuesday, just below the turn