Everything is motion
in the early-morning heat

an ant drags a gravelly husk
across the retaining wall

I’ve fled outside to drink
coffee in peace, requiring

a slower start these days,
a softer entrance into

the world of the living.
the bud on the yellow

starthistle is revealed
to be a bee, technically

a noxious weed but
I only see the one.

How to explain
this need for quiet,

what dreams did
come were not

particularly pleasant,
but as always

there’s an element
of truth in them

One must be wise
in interpretation

what textures
appear across acres

of scrub brush,
and what thread

to follow–
the neighbors’ voices

drift over across the
culvert, he’s not

happy with his grapes.
I wish I had more

literal beliefs, had
many gods, didn’t

hold uncertainty
as the one true thing;

then this slick barn
swallow would be

a message from
Aphrodite, a sign

of returning love
It’s true I throw salt,

knock on wood,
somehow more apt

to believe prophecies
of impending disaster,

in vengeful tradition
than optimistic signs

finding peace only
in the early morning

quiet, watching the
hillside to reveal

its secret paths
and hidden lives.