Did the vast slope bear flax
and cheat all summer?
Fill me in. I haven’t the heart
to make myself a study in the grass.
Unlikely to climb the broad stone fences.
Unlikely to improve. Fodder easily gained
might not provide for—us, ungainly quail.
Proceed toward the blinds.
You’ll hear the report, later.
You’ll think, just take your limit
this time, you’ll think
the failsafe dawn breaks
soon enough
and treacherous is the road.