Walking the Pasture

The night we walked
the two-pathed road—the one
you accidentally carved
in the pasture driving buckets
of corn and water drawn warm
from our winter bathtub
back and forth to three pigs
who skip and jive every time
your silver pickup climbs
the gentle hill and stops—
the farm light, as always, took over
where the moon left off.
Clouds crept in from the east.
We smelled but doubted rain.
We smiled but doubted this, our place.
Orion, in his simplicity,
pinpoints of restlessness shining,
hunted the western horizon
without finding it, shoulders lit,
chest filled with night.


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