Jeremiah is mud pulled from the treads Of boots that swamped through The early spring. He breaks at the touch,and Clings until he is brushed aside. Now he watches the crows Sweep up from the field, Passing the sun and the rooftops, And it reminds him of a gunshot Heard when he was still Dirt and water, seperate but equal. Black wings crossing momentary shadows Across his eyes. A quick succession of images Pulling him in moment by moment Of scarecrows and hay-colored women Always together. So he becomes a puddle Glazed over with dirt Shaken from hands stuffed with straw.