Counting Chickens

A scrap of cloud
brightens mud-rutted ground,
another jagged tile.

This mosaic of delicate shells
maps a story of spring breezes,
willows cloaking the banks,
a cow bell in the distance.

To have that cow
in a poppy-red barn
by a house with shutters. To step
up the flights of wealth.

A moment’s attention
to sonnets and silk,
an inch or two of stature gained,

and then the day’s sky
turned onto the road.