Mourning
doves stir and coo
In early light draped pale
By
mist and the dew
Grew
thick between our toes.
We
had slept that night
In
an open field picked blind
After
a late night's drive
Through
countless hallows
Lit
by the fires of ten thousand tires
Burning
wildly in a junkyard heap.
A
breath of hell like a Bruegel print
As
the flames flared tight
To
the side of the road.
By
noon the huddled hills were
Sweeps
of green and hummingbirds
Swooped
to a dulcimer lilt
Beneath
a leafy canvas,
Beneath
a translucent sky.
