Pig in Steer Country
By sundown, I’d pulled three black bass
and struck them on rocks. I used to have
style: a wicker basket, trout,
a herringbone coat.
In a grizzled autumn,
you told me these
were merely echoes: the falling tree
that took the forest with it,
crisp duff, another
hunter’s moon. I enter the night, a sow
sniffing in the cool,
so the passing leaves
can cling to me for calm,
and you can practice
in the loose
sound of crows,
with your medicine knives.