March when the man watches the woman,
her hair wet with clay,
his wishing she were pretty. May,
when the man stands pale against the field,
his fist filled with new seed, the woman
reeled over split rock and weed.
Later, the hints of Indian Summer. Yellow leaf.
Its slack streaks of brass and green.
That October. A stray dog, black and tearing at
his fur, walks west along their road in early morning.