The truck grinds by
and pumps out grit;
the road glints and
goes still.
The barn owl that
had not finished here
returns. But with
its fill
of scavenges,
face ruffled in mulch,
the vole is lost
and safe
so the silent specter
flits away, its
moon face to
the moon
and rears unknown
against a copse,
claws tipped for
the strafe
and something dies
too soon.
He filled her between
the hay bales in
that Dutch barn, now
abandoned,
where the wind
catches its breath
in the stanchions,
air gun holes.
Then they sprang up
light and lightsome
and she tugged his hand
with her hand
as the breeze pulled
at the poppy heads
and rabbits shrank
round boles.
But how soon he’ d
grow indifferent
as the tick she
couldn’ t see
that was part of
her for longer
than he would choose
to be.