no electric ball
just stars on the mesa
shining in the new year
coyote moon
chasing your tail
as we circle the bed
three times under the covers
before we fall asleep
in the crosswalk
through the windshield
his eyes meet mine
and we just know
green light
new snow
the morning I spent
playing with
my neighbor's dog
disappears
on the window
my name streaked
in fingermarks
where the frost
hid the sun
the blood
on the barbed wire
between the horses in the field
and the horse running
down the dirt road
under asphalt
my footprints in the dust
of an old dirt road
face first
into the morning sun
the way the mountain
taught me how
to pray
open blinds
she fills the vase
of gladiolus
with fresh
sunlight
a week
after you're gone
I still make
my coffee the way
you like it
shoveling the walk
I find part of a wing
of a chalk butterfly
today I am not
going to rescue the planet
instead I will
go for a walk
and let it rescue me
I meet the brother
of a sparrow I knew
back at the old house
and he sings me a song
his nephew taught him
the old white bigot
who even hated
blackbirds
sticking my fingers
into a winter stream
until I can feel
my heart beating
in the palm of my hand
full birdfeeder
the chirping
of the heater fan
hidden in the trees
and singing to the dawn
sparrow moon
coyote
sitting on the hill
licking his wounds
the sun comes up
the snow comes down
just the same
behind me
sleeping on the couch
under the covers
the ferret
who has my back
I read
until the book
gets so sleepy
it starts mumbling
another language
the light so thick
from the end of the day
pouring off the sun
like water running down
the side of the mountain
the pitch black window
of a pitch black room
cracked open
the perfect pitch
of a night bird
shine on me softly
this moonlight I seek
though the car is packed
and the morning young
and she still sleeping
as if the stars
all fell at one time
and the world
was covered in wishes
my private sunrise
with each squeak
of the old pump well
a spurt of cold water
and an answer
from the chickadee
before I throw it
in the dumpster
a homeless woman
asks for this book of poems
with no rhyme or reason
when I went walking
down my grandfather's drive
out past the mailbox
to where the dirt road
turned into summer
the swayback mare
who would not let me
sit on her back
the rusted red tractor
in the weeds who would
making up
for all the lost leaves
winter sparrows
after slamming
the screen door
the sparrows
come back
but you don't
putting away groceries
milk on the top shelf
ketchup in the door
and a couple ferrets
in the vegetable bin
after the argument
when you walked ahead
throwing stones
and building yourself
a mountain
hole in the candle
where we talked until the sun
flickered on the wall