i.

Distant shit
and wet moss

laced through
what winter’s

left: radiated

rain, warped
window sill,

wind-seething
eucalyptus.

ii.

Ocean-shoved
cumulus cloud

incises horizon

held by hills
and radio towers’

red volleyed lights.

iii.

As if to pin
a thought

to the back
of my skull

    a humming-
bird pivots,
glares

through me
— its red-

metallic
throat a-

float
in fog.

iv.

From all corners here

stars confuse the dark.
Compound the dark.

Frog-chants in tandem

over a seasonal creek’s
flat, static whisk.