stones stacked at the backof the piece at the little riseinto the trees, honeylocusts with…neoclassical? gothic? thornsclassical thornshired to stack these rocks Ishift and walk, shift and walkand stack and spit, take abreak, sift, pick loose skinfrom a callous of coursethe grass infested noamount of turkey nobantam rooster cansolve so I stay mostly in the rocksdigging out a few, so many loosebones yes but not novel theshocks running throughI thought “count every rock” andyou know, “one, one, and so on”so I took a picture of the sunsetthe early sunset, the sun barelyeven setting, like the sun restingwith its eyes closed, beamingthrough the seed heads ofmiddle distance and thoughtof a fish I could catch, fishgutsin the garden, thought about thehard rain forecasted and howthis hard ground, mostly dust,bones, rock, and weeds wouldfeed the fish, would rush wouldilluminate the ditch the valley andhow in town down the hill fromthe house a pool would start atthe culvert and creep past the poles ofthe martin houses over the tops ofgreen onions and halfway up the terrace tothe patio, poolthe brick fireplace its blackened gratea landing for helicopters