I think because of the state of my throat,
I'm going to read five more poems, four of which
are linked.
Naturally, I'll read those four together.
Here's the one that's not part of that series.
It's called "Thanksgiving."
They have come again to graze the orchard,
knowing they will be denied.
The leaves have fallen on the dry ground.
The wind makes piles of them, sorting all it destroys.
What doesn't move, the snow will cover.
It will give them away.
Their hooves make patterns which the snow remembers.
In the cleared field, they linger, as the summoned prey
whose part is not to forgive.
They can afford to die.
They have their place in the dying order.