The Precision of Leaving

There are places less significant
than this: gnarled trees,

the barn with the face of an old man
carved in its slates, the stagnant

black well. There were seasons
stacked like the fields,

rounded haybails left out to dry,
the berry bush tangled

in weeds; each red fruit
choking. We gathered them

thinking of mulberry seeds
and imagined the pie.

There are reasons for leaving-
when the snow came down

grey ducks would fly
in V's precise as decision,

the pond still and mourning
in the farmer-child's eye.