Beyond spring
into summer’s dread heat
out past Amish hunting stand
we dodge Tangle Briar,
shedding rot of dead ash, 
as nothing breaks the crunch 
of dried cattail
except heartbeat shelved
inside your blue sleeves;
at last, in silence,
we achieve the far reach
of Hawks Point

Now with monocular 
spying on red-winged black birds
in maternal flit amid thistle
bloom, you sit where wild rose
pricks an ankle and lick
the red drops as if in thirst
for the liquor of faithfulness