You Are Rest

Shotgun casings lie in the straw
Beside the marsh, below the lake.

The parked car hums and heats itself.
Yesterday's snow retreats uphill.

One greyish bird, which has no need
For whatever names one could claim,

Preens in a dead tree's protection.
A larger bird dislodges it.

The marsh reeds are potted in ice.
Occasional contrails link clouds,

And pick-ups pulling horse trailers
Roar, singly, down the potholed road.

If you read enough of these things
Aloud, slowly and precisely,

They start to sound like poetry
Of the kind best left to fragment.

If you observe the restlessness
Of enough of this emptiness

Glimpse by glimpse, you begin to think
You can catch and release the world.