the agricultural land reserve

i smelled them as dust as they limped past
with a gait that told the story of lives who
once knew long muscle in place of stone

into the curtain of dusk beyond
the room of singularity they left left no sign
of how they came from anywhere

this snapshot of the Deas Slough wouldn't 
know them anyhow: its shores they have been
eaten by northern ice its peat by dad's 
backyard beefstakes and Cherokee purples
their stilted home by moorings and escape boats
for the haves not us

we should drink to their ability with 
gravity and time and drink to the infinite versions
of them under the slivers of laneway stars

it does not have to be trees winter to see 
the eagle nest there three metres of perfect chaos
floating in the hydro line truss elbow
but it is winter
and summer has grown too large
fringing too much the edges of its own allure
for this season to remain any answer
trades now happen: plastic swimming pools
and sprinklers for more than just lawn
for carpeted basements and disney

and cherry pop and more stories called news

those of dust their place is only with

the electricity behind the brow

and not with any of us right now
breathing. it is with this highway shoulder
and the space beyond mine that slumps like
the paired arcs of a bull's horns stumps
succumbed to emotional blood and 
finding final home against
this quiet steering column