You are sprinkled across

this roadmap,

 

Salinas, Baton Rouge,

the Minnesota prairie,

 

a trailer on the Haw.

One of you,

rumor has it,

 

runs a farm stand. I can see you

bagging peaches,

making change,

 

brushing bangs from hazel eyes.

 

It’s beautiful here this morning, hons.

 

Even the pond scum gleams.

 

A couple of dozen starlings

are twirling about

the phone lines,

 

scoring

the music of

each unrepeatable breath.