The ground cracks,
not from thirst, not from flood,
just from shifting.
On the sidewalk, a thing with wings
twists, twitches, stops.
A man walks by in shorts,
doesn’t look up, doesn’t look down,
but the sky knows he is there.
A girl in a sundress eats something cold.
A car rolls by with its windows open,
the sound inside spills out,
but no one listens.
The hills wear something new,
not green, not gold, just different.
A breeze, or maybe just air moving.
A dog barks once, then decides against it.
The thing with wings is gone.
Spring races like a mainline.
