Not Smoke

Not Smoke

Dingy clouds lifting
from the green fields,

right away, I look for
fire, not for the truck

kicking up dust,
leaving this place.

What should I expect
from the land, watching

the fields, the ponds
like rained-in giant’s

footprints, the trees
playing statue.

Even if you have
a staring contest

with the moon, you
won’t see it moving,

won’t see morning coming.
Gazing at the picturesque

will always hurt you
if you’re doing it right.