A bitch senses under her padded
paws, the earth
as it fattens
so verdantly, it pulsates.
Between animal and core,
the message
of the Valley is, Continue—
It is up to her, lifting her tail
on finding a warm pocket,
then tucking her flank round her
to express the betrayals
the new perform
on the formers
like snow
pulling down leaves and brown apples.
When she keens from Mt. Crag
a listener knows, this is not Paradise.
Climbing later
out of
her den to greet the spring, she sees it
swell the steppe-lands again,
bringing in bluebirds,
waking wild celery.
She stretches her hindquarters after chewing live rabbit.
Without changes, the Honey Crisps,
Pink Ladies, Chisel Jerseys
would be simplified
to a straight, unending, predictable
line. Think of it.
No gambler would lose.
Tomatoes, bougainvillea, their yield
never rest.
