In June, when Venus made her transit across the sun, the cast iron stove
felt in the way – like an old deciduous tooth. Today
mother cleared the cobwebs from its belly, sent spindly creatures
skittering to the corners of the house; father applied an even coat
of Stove Bright paint – flat black.
Just as early canned peaches taste sweetest at first snow, Osage
orange burns warmest when barn owls bend to morning
silence. Fifteen fledgling swallows perch now upon the power line
playing at pecking order. Father sweeps the truck, oils his chainsaw,
caches his poles and tackle in the rafters of the shed.
— Lisa Hase