Their cage empty,
ribs drop on the field.
Seared winter grass watches quietly.
Among sharp hawthorns
the stooped shadow of an old one
and enters the earth,
quilted into hard dirt completely.
From my path I stare, not braving a move.
soon there's nothing else,
only a pale sun.
The grass turns toward its light,
and I turn
back to my own.
View, 2_4 (Summer 1998)