Milking a comet is thirsty work
but it suits me to the bone.
dog star kennels in my back forty
where the pecans are black fallen
in green grass… there i lose my frisbee
and sing otherwise.
out by the shed you can mark a century
of unspoiled silence…
humming in the canopy
like a harmless
quiet.

like a mitten
for a snowflake
with a song.