where there “isn’t no
Coyotes, like in them hills,
no copperheads, rattlers, and no ticks.”
just gentle slopes rolling up to subdivision fences,
and the essence of wild flowers heated up by summer.
I think I smell the countryside
I hardly know, the clusters of Oak and Ash, the famed Bluegrass
I have yet to see.
If I could just find a clean piece of dirt to curl up in,
a patch of forest leaves
visited by beetles, and moss, and mysterious undergrowth
to dig my hands in,
I think I could begin to see
why people love it so.