No cows to look at

No cows to look at

I hear the truck traffic

Everything changes like clouds

The page this poem is on burns

Coming from the funeral with friends

Talking on the telephone

No trucks to grind their gears

I hear the minute hand moving

Birds and people inhabit the earth

A black bear inhabits the earth, too

A rock in the sun

Calligraphy brush

In a mind there is apocalypse

No one can hear it