A sense of crows returning in large flocks
to rearrange the body of a tree. The sound
of something black and sharp flying
into its own reflection. A folktale spoken
aloud. A spell. In this verse a neighbor
with one good hand lays a bridge across his creek.
What is more reliable than this new wood growing
full of holes. The day is wasted watching horses
drag their shadows the length of the field and back.
The spine spoils its own alignment—serpent curve
like a shelled thing, sea-born. Legless. Weighted, the gate
calls out from the heft of admission. If I could choose,
it would be a seat out of earshot. If the song were played
again, from the beginning, it would wind its own notes down.