ant5

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we live like

astronauts

in our home

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no egg from

the molting

speckled hen

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still and warm

at the center of

the evening storm

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the sail

on the wind chime

stirs soundlessly

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the bird houses

on their sides

in the shop

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smoke from

the burn pile burns

through the fog

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right after

he’s back he’s gone

winter fly

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maybe it was

one of the poison

kind

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the sunbeam finds

the orange leaves

in the mist

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the blue mist

of dusk yields

cows

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