for Rubina and Otto Schroeder

There is a therapy in fields—
east, west, nothing speaks but the sky.
Jackrabbit crouches in a gully,
ears poised, ready to spring.
Cattle raise their heads—they are listeners,
as I become the deepest listener
where there is least to hear.

Somehow my limbs begin returning,
fingers form again at the ends of my arms.
On the earth, feet receive direct knowledge—
hiking the rise by the fish-tank,
the tangled path between the barns,
they step and climb, alive.

How is it, such wealthy redemption
in a fence post, a rusting stove?
Far away a coyote chants.
It is wonderful to think we will never meet.
Going home later, thirty deer will cross single file
in our headlights, followed by a pack of grunting pigs.

Could I live like this? I ask myself
and I know, somehow, I must.
More and more my life is peeling paint,
straight horizons.
More and more my name dissolves in the air,
salt, something invisible I taste,
and forget.

Ring around the moon—tomorrow, rain.
But tonight the stars are up.
We sit on the steps with flashlights,
picking out animals in the fields,
picking them out, briefly,
then giving them back their dark.

And if the world remembers us,
it is not that we have done anything,
but more, that we have witnessed
the cistern’s quiet bucket
and for awhile tonight,
dropped it down.