its been a slow migration

the soft squish of at least a hundred hooves
following me along one side of the fence whose other side i stride along 
down the gravel of the backroad
and back up again

it’s been a slow migration
i say to shiz about
the spring movement from one place
to another
a name for the brilliance of green
on the first of april after
four days of rain and gray 
a name for the mild color of theperennials busting through the soft earth surface
a name for the exclamations of yellow 
blossoming along the forsythia branches
a name for all the color that floods in
as the sun finally tells the gray to step aside
the sneezes erupting in
various rooms of the whitehouse as we 
sweep/mop/wipe down/sort and organize

the four bay leaves swirling in the simmer of tepary beans cooking with onions and garlic
whille the pumpkin and sunflower seeds pop/bloat as they toast in the skillet
while the corn and red pepper and onion roast in another skillet
as the chimichurri glows green in its small bowl on the butcher block and the steam of the thinnest slices of butternut squash cooking on sheet trays rises from the oven cranked to 450 degrees
not misty and not foggy but a name for the subtle haze
that surrounds the crescent beginning its arc down
into the west against a dark but not ink dark night


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