She keeps her eye on the mud, the bruised

earth, a bite of terrain, the pavement

furrowing the prairie like a throat

choked on a rock. As tough, as mineral,

her belief that land returns to itself,

a surprise to everyone to see the soft arms

of a woman against a plow

here, again. On my porch, a purple finch

hugs the feeder, the cool metal hoop

as soft as a branch to the claw.

Feathers martyr the sidewalk.