this silent morning
fog pressing against windows
a black cat shivers

waiting on the neighbor's porch
he ignores my attention

This is the month of the painted-pony moon, surrounded by constellations equally gold and obsidian. Breathing light upon canyon walls brushed by old rough coats and silky new manes. The soft shuffle of hoofs sing of ancient trails.

in cold morning air

soft huffing breath makes

frosty clouds

Old 33

what's left
of her, bypassed,
who had always seemed
the joining of the sun
and its setting,
now the river's thin shadow,
meandering
through the corn,
past woodlots,
cemeteries, billboards,
boarded up filling stations,
empty storefronts, still
changing her clothes
at every little
town she divides