It’s a wash,
a monochrome wash,

blank on blank, a sky
less than sky,

striated by rain
that won’t let up.

Winter rye seed floats
in the furrows,

soon it should dig in,
unfurl, give cover.

Gone birds ink out
arrows with wings.

An instinct is flight.
An instinct is to burrow.

But which instinct is right?
Blight-burnt leaves splatter

the ground, damp
adherence, the aim,

the only real aim here,
to get as far as we can,

stick the landing,
and settle.