Over the crumpled spine of the barn,
on the unwashed blackboard of the sky,
floats a chalk thumb print smudge of the moon.
In this milky light, the wire fence swoons
under the amorous clutches of the honeysuckle
vines. Come morning, jeweled hummers and wild bees
will wade into the fragrance, their feet becoming
saffron with trumpet dust and wet with sweet liquor.
Flight will become an erratic dance among the falling
towheaded children of the silver leafed cottonwood.
— Lorraine Achey