Grass, etc.

Living on a small hill
I know the season by the wind
the cold way it blushes faces
brushes spaces clean of debris

the fence line capturing plastic bags
paper cups red Christmas ribbon
from how many years ago
all the while collecting scraps of unread news

where the dog,
forbidden by plastic-coated metal rope,
wants so badly to go, on instinct
on force of possum or rabbit or raccoon scent

or perhaps she feels beyond the fence
the pull of open space, a field of grass, etc.
(that opens each morning to the sun’s bluff run
to that slow star fall that means morning in the east)

the quiet feeling telling her what she always knows
(as a thumbprint of black birds,
indiscriminant & ever-changing
moves north to south across a cloudless blue)

sometimes it’s just enough to be.