In-law

Tara Bray

The cries of the killdeer agitate

like demons delicate and ruthless,

the bird ten steps ahead in harsh light,

the wheat soft and green,

thoughtless heads at the mercy of the wind.

A pheasant hunkers down in dust,

its splendor tucked tight, muted

by land squared off and measured.

The family is almighty, the yellow day cold.

I am outside, tended by wind I hate.

What world is this?

The sun so strange and everywhere.