Grouse

This water flows dark red

            from alder tannin:

boot-stain river

                        between white rocks.

            An ouzel, flannel-feathered,

sips the current up.

                        Mossgatherers

            spread their patches

across a dry, flat turnaround.

                        They seem embarrassed,

            want to shelter in the dark.

A coyote running in broad day;

                        stumps ruffling

            with sulphur polypores

woodsy to the tongue,

                        woody to teeth. Early

            yellow leaves paste river to its bed;

blackberries drop, the last,

                        many out of taste

            and strictly smudge.

Puddles loop in the road:

                        Bottomland—

            the foolhen

waits there for

                        the fool gun,

            gray throat-down free in a burst,

the pose, the afterslump.

                        Carcass beside spirit.

            O come to my hand, unkillable;

whatever continues, continue to approach.