by Bryan Moats
I I can see down into what used to be a cattle dipping pond, where at least one horse is buried and lawnmower batteries rot. I can hear geese. I can smell rooftops. II White knuckling the swaying branchless pine, twenty-five feet high, this is also where I keep my fog knife safe. Folded up in the airstream. It rains. It is raining. III Great puddles of thinking just deep enough to please the bright Indian Runner and the weight of some fat Muscovy. Water seeks gaps in suet. To ruin the bird’s seed. To keep me in bed. To yawn all over me. IV I begin churning clarity the moment I hear thunder on the way, bouncing over the surface of the forest’s ready ministries. They have settled and spread out as a fog at twenty-five feet above the valley floor. V It still rumbles. Now the thickness of dawn and its sister, an overfed cat, join me at the top of the swaying naked pine. We sway. We are swaying. VI We never know where to go with this moment. We never know where to go with this top-heavy moment. Like three sedate Harold Lloyds. Accidentally going on with things. Slicing nothing.
Bryan Moats lives in rural Arkansas with his family of five. He is a farmer, illustrator, volunteer firefighter, writer and former editorial art director for the Arkansas Times. Find Bryan on Twitter @BryanMoats or Instagram @brynomite.