Past the swirl of yellow cemetery dust,
shallow-rooted trees, homemade toys at roadside....
A farmhouse, tiny windows, gently sways
beneath oval-carved clouds.
It is so easy to end up broke with no more
than an end-crust of pocked rye bread.
A farmer sweeps off a black-dust bed,
sets aside his father's blood-wet eagle head cane.
On the westward downslide of a rutted two-track,
a boy in a careening pickup listens to his heart begin to race.