devotee

that red bucket
you left on the grass
two days ago
stands now in a field of frost
wire handle frozen
straight up
waiting for your hand
as it has now for
two long nights

inanimate, stolid,
not sentient and yet
holding in its posture
all the longing
and attentiveness
of someone
waiting at the altar

december morning

Shadows shrink against the mountains

as the sun rises over their shoulders

spilling unclouded light into the valley bowl

where a school bus, amber-colored, rumbles

down a quiet road. A sound from its horn

raises a mass of warm brown bodies

from a golden field, black wings

beating groggily as they rise up

into morning.