The windows flare—then gutter—glass
throws out the elders’ watchful faces;
boys loom larger as they pass
each year from thaw to summer solstice.
Past the street the shore retraces
mottled trails—mud-soaked shoes;
low voices caught in open spaces,
the moon a cut, the sun a bruise.
Past alpenglow—a boy at play
whirls hard around the locust bole;
arms flung wide—then dropped away—
jackdaws rake the evening whole.
Before the street had sound
the trees lay black. The sky pressed down.