—
Out here I can’t
Seem to keep anything
Inside. Even with the
A/C running full tilt
And the house sealed from
Heat blasting, I can’t
Stop the magnetic pull
Of the horizon and its
Girl-sweet clouds like
Back-up singers filling
The harmony. The box on the
Corner of Timberline is
Just a birdhouse I
Flit in and out of–
Excuse I give to survey
The prairie between this
Bush and that tree and count
The acres of home where
My thoughts escaping.