Shifting wheat. Cattail seed  
sprung like birdshot. 
  
The tarp horsewhip  
above the half-worked  
  
harvest in sheaves.  
Here again, the air  
  
turned nickel, season 
of drop cloth sky.  
  
What’s another word  
for idle that’s not sloth?  
  
For regret that’s not failure?  
The horse bucked 
  
her birthing colt  
snap neck 
  
against the concrete.  
What’s another word  
  
for salvage that’s not storm? 
The wind turned sinew white.  
  
The corn stalks bristled.  
What’s another word  
  
for jubilee that’s not  
written in mud  
  
and a thousand concussions 
on the coop’s tin roof?