Familiar things.
A rabbit the size of a small dog
Breaks cover; hides in the open
On a piece of bare ground;
Then bolts for a hedge on the far end of the field.
Small tracks, old poems.
The last clay field before the road,
So heavily wrapped around my boots
In the past
Is grass this year; firm and flat.
A new barbed wire roll in the wood;
“Shall I come a supplicant to my own table?”
The gentle burr of the woodpecker’s violent meal