A white road leads into the farm;
becomes a cratered barnyard
where an old German shepherd
busts the tautness of a rusty iron chain,
thrashing its intentions a body-length away.
The rose moon rises. As if in downpour,
its light streaks the lemon-scented leaves
of a sprawling eucalyptus; plays
upon the texture of the bark,
the resinous knots and boles,
like sleight of hand on a piccolo’s fingerings.
Everything—even an ocellated lizard
basking beside the coop—
moves at snail’s gallop:
gradually up and over
the choppy furrows of the new-hoed earth.
after Joan Miro, 1921-1922