Daylight comes warm against the rust
of a thresher. Runoff from storms
lies shadowed in the mesquite grove.
Night’s coyotes scatter like spies,
slinking off to recondite shade.
The day’s too dust-laden for speech.
Wind sings through what falls out of use,
a refrain of discordant notes
threading rusted pump rods, fencing,
a screen door beyond the back porch.