here is a book before ink
one wind-creased page in rust of buckwheat
its grammar not plosive but drift
dropped by the trickster bird at night
an arrival in absence
heralded by rasp of the gnatcatcher
foretold in the bladderpod burst
all are gathered. some will listen
to the tremble of lyric for a fault line
over sacred break, a next wave of warnings
ignored
