Telephone wires stretched out over the asphalt. Harsh wind. Storms killing for more. We found an overturned basket of apples Spilled out between the split-ends of downed branches Tumbled into the gutter. We tackled big questions and walked south Until the river found us. Streamside pebbles, Tree roots leaping from the bank to the bottom, Leaving catfish behind when the stream Goes again with the breeze. Ripples where we kicked in stones and the sound Of sinking. Bones, I said, it reminds me of bones. Like someone bleeding, dragged here fresh dead And shoved in to rest in the silt from the north Fields grown tired with potatoes. We stuck toes in at the very edge, watched Picket fences slip away towards the coast, Twirling and dying in distance, becoming Scratches on the surface of the water, Marks of man washed away.