Winter books are full.

See you in the spring.

The country calls and fills the calendar of things,

rest and ramblin.

My vehicle is a horse, rared and valiant.

My phone a rotary with no times stamp or feeds.

My lover made me salmon soup,

which may take weeks to slow-slurp as I please.

Thick burls to feed the hungry stoves.

Time slips out the pipe to go dance in the city.

Leave me be tending these wanting seeds.

Leave me hot animal roaming these hillsides–

thick red and pulsing, deep wild and growling

steady gallop on through the night.