The sky is not a glass of anything;
it winks, it’s a parable,
the kind your mother told whenever

On the radio a canary bewailed her luck
while the county outside was kicking with rain.
The kids bickered in the back seat;

It is Sunday, day of roughhousing. We are let out in the woods. The young boys wrestle and butt their heads together like sheep—a circle forms; claps and shouts fill the air. The women, brown and glossy, gather round the banjo player, or simply lie in the sun, legs and aprons folded.