We hunted We gathered We counted clouds
between the slats of the pergola
moving northwest as specifics within generalities
Nothing needed to be true in the old sense of forever
It was like imagination
true as a stone fence as wind as steel drills
silver cold as a north storm The grasses I now know
as cheat and foxtail
moved in waves like water because wind was visiting
We had fences and orchards angled to the light
Parts of the world
stood still long enough to be named and counted
We had the mystery of handedness in nature
the impertinence of circles
unlikely weddings of drain flies and meteors
Meaning did not need to be aligned with sunrise
or magnetic north
light falling first on a roof comb heel stone
It could be located next to the philodendron
doorstop downstream
from a long cast shadow of milk thistle
It could be sited with words so if I said the maple
disappeared it would be gone
and be an empty space If I said incantatory
so it would be with no need for singing or repeating
But I could be ignored
A gust could turn my pages to its own frivolous interests
