He told us a story of lightning splitting the lone tree
on a hill's top, killing three horses beneath it at once.
They lay that way through winter; come May, their
licked-clean bones gleamed from a bed to green tendrils
and clover. We knew it had meaning, the way he said;
nature takes care to spirit back what's hers; they'd
been his best. We watched him talk, then he stopped.
This comes to me today just as a curtain of white
sweeps the vineyard, buds thrashed by torrents combing
the rows, the clatter on glass waking my napping boy