The grass browned in the sun. And over the prairie at the end of June, the wind carried dust on sheets of heat. On the shore of your thigh in a thrill of light I woke. That moment struck us apart and the distance widened like a sail against the sky. The ocean blows.
Wind shifts the sand and leaves no stone.
The flicker on top of the telephone pole eyes the boys pitching ball in the park. Clank of the ball on the metal bat, the ball's arc. The bird sails down. That arc against the sky times the boy's arrival with his mitt. Instinctive geometers, flicker and boys.