Cock crows on Sunday;
Fat little bird ignores me;
No cloud in the sky.

Nose poked through the fence
Sad eyed Basset wants a scratch
Then back to his howl.

The fence posts ripple;
Their wooden slats skip and sway.
What good do they do?

The electric pole:
Wires stream from its crossed beams.
Crucified current.

The woods seem greeneries;
Moss on logs, sun through the pines.
The promise of Spring.

The sun is quiet
As it falls upon the road
Without a whisper.

A brown beer bottle
Lies in a roadside puddle.
It almost fits in.