Rodney Torreson

The sheep-killing dogs saunter home, wool scraps in their teeth. From the den of the moon ancestral wolves howl their approval. The farm boys, asleep in their beds, live the same wildness under their lids; every morning they come back through the whites of their eyes to do their chores, their hands pausing to pet the dog, to press its ears back, over the skull, to quiet that other world.

A birdbath ministers to the lawn chairs, all toppled: a recliner on its face, metal arms trying to push it up; an overturned rocker, curvature of the spine. Armchairs on their sides, webbing unraveled. One faces the flowers. A director's chair folded, as if prepared to be taken up.