Punctuating an unnamed stretch of gravel,
weathered structures lean an ear
to woods—tangled and haunted by frogs.
Tender-thumbed tulips press green
from a window box, while the daffodils,
once polite, traipse from abandoned swing
to the barn turned shrine to rusted auto parts.
In the barbed wire patch, dormant grass pacifies
the goat who fixes her cataracts
on each passing pickup; blackbird; mutt.
Crate of murky bottles and the refrigerator
from childhood, now defunct, retire against the fence
alongside the elderly soprano gate.
No one hears the dissonant song, except the dog
who has been here so long he’d miss the company
if someone set it right.