Resignation

The dry stubble of the field

wilts under the rain,

                    soft as jaw hair

under a hot towel. The summer

is a slim blade

   at winter’s throat.

We are all hoping for the season

to change, for something new

                          to emerge

from the small nicks

in our skin, undeterred

by the styptic rhythm of emails

and stand-up meetings.

Already the hard drop of blood

is separating

cleanly from skin, already

we have given up hope

                    of bleeding freely.

A wild turkey

lifts its reptile legs one

after the other

across last year’s crop,

                    carrying its dark body

to the trees

where it is indistinguishable

from the dead wood and stones.