A coney lolls under cooling shadow of aluminum bins,
sniffs the humid wind blown through treeless hillocks
ignoring the loop of shell roads shorn of saplings thin
as when sight adheres past scrub pines and simple forks
to a swampy place where gators wait in carnal silence
and feral pigs bristle brown under fronds in rustling rut.
If always a pond in the sand it's a masked green suspense
while the river still swirls with tawny fishes schooled but
in the temporal buoyance of trolling on mirrored peace
the glass is broken with sudden rolls to a grassy shore.
A man yells Quebecois into a pay phone at river's beach
but the concessions stand will tender hickory as before,
so rest tonight, eyes heavenly as the cypher face of Orion
creeps from east to west in his glacial chase of setting suns.