Against the Kitchen Wall

A mothball May. I lean against the kitchen wall. The sacred pear tree on the hill. The skyline, small green wheat waverunning with the wind. From west to east the green’s spanned out by men on horseback and on foot, men with long staffs slow-motion, searching. The saddles glint. What are they sweeping for? Why coming this direction? Are those staffs guns? If  they are after quail, or hares, why is their fanning law-enforcement grim, as for a felon, a missing person, or one too imbecile to find her way? One who laid waste the safe place by the kitchen wall, bankrupted her May day, malpracticed pear and gifted wheat? I’m waiting, men.