On Monday I awoke to the koan of a rifle:
the sound of one hand cracking its knuckles.
In retreat, their wings make a noise
too like applause. Their cries of alarm?
Dependable.


          In the stony paddock,
three Palominos bend to the stubble,
oblivious to the corpse ladder-high in the roost,
the silhouette is part Chardin, part Sergio Leone.


A churlish jay, boots over gravel, a groaner,
and the insistent tapping of halyards
on the Lightnings’ aluminum masts.


On the Sabbath what is that cacophony?
The sound of one hand playing Mercy.