Against the grain of what any day could hold,

​        the back yard grows thick with cane 

and hawks wait on power lines along the horizon.

​        Just out of view, my sons chase each other

throwing oyster shells and laughing. My daughter

​        draws pictures on the driveway in blue chalk.

The moccasin we killed last summer 

​        coils near her in the shade. Inside,

my wife rattles pots out of the cabinet

​        for supper. She asks my mother something about

tomorrow. The sun drops and rises, drops

​        and rises. The hawks tuck beaks underwing.

The snake crawls off unnoticed. And the question

​        just hangs there in the sweet air.

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