I woke first, and tore pages
from my notebook to stoke
the stove in the quiet. Across

the fire ring, last night, his face
had been dark. Stepping outside,
I sat among the obsolete

instruments of agriculture that hung
on the shack’s face, their rusted
abstraction. The morning was severe,

the moon at odds
with the sunrise in the same sky,
and the drinking water frozen

in its glass. At once, a coyote
appeared, circling fowl as if doting
on a lover. It was clear now, in the palm

of first light: The brush had awoken
with the graying leaves’
reckless, burning torrent

towards an indifferent
earth. What did I know?
The flames that grew inside

were ones I’d desired, coaxed
from unsuitable kindling
until they caught.