goat bells . . .
a light wind lifts
the butterfly wing

old tractor seat
filled with rain —
and birdsong

spring afternoon
her buttocks peek out
from my shirt

Sunday morning —
picking empties
off the lawn

someone at the gate
the blue wren rounds up
all his hens

early spring —
when the rain stops
I close the door

distant virga
the ranch dog’s eyes
different colors

     spring break . . .
  rival shirts flying
together on the line

the neighbors’ tiff
envelops the valley
bees in the cherry tree

a sea of blossoms —
will every bird
find its mate?