long before language the S of the river
hand-hewn boards
beams of sunlight
fill the barn
parallel
worlds
the
stack
by
my
bed
empty nest
our son’s old sweater
on the dog
to accept the things
I cannot change
outgoing tide
maybe I too
have softened with age
moss-covered stones
wild geese
kvetching across the sky
March bluster
redwood duff
yesterday’s rain
still falling
lights out—
we discuss
our extinction
hunger moon
a descendent of wolves
licks our plates