From the Fishouse

We were taught to count kestrels on wires
like coins in our pockets. Whole years

we recalled by color: that torch-year,
tanager, fox, sandstone, sage. Droughts

revealed the river’s former ways, oars wedged
between boulders, a derailed boxcar,

conductor’s leather cap. A recluse fell in love
with certain shadows spilled across

her cellar floor, and among the east’s first stars
were the occasional words jeweling-up at dusk

with junkyards, chrome hubcaps—as mirrors
struck small skies across our bodies.