A white utility truck pulls to the curb,
stiff as a nun in her wimple, its crane
lobbing a man into the air to clip
branches that fondle the wires.
To the delight of this city dweller,
a green tractor crawls up hitched
to eight spirals of hay. The moment these
behemoths cross paths, a sinkhole opens.
Anything is possible. I am my country
cousin, simmering broth, musk of fresh
love rising. At dusk, Mia and Pearl
prick up their ears when I call them in,
low light silvering their fur. Little
bobcats, they gallop to me, wild.
