But That’s Not the Assignment

Someone mowed the cow pasture
That mule deer use, down the road.
The grass is short now and ruled

Like composition paper.
Long-dead leaves, knocked off of trees
They clung to half the winter,

Tumble along in the wind,
Like grey sparrows foraging
In little hops through the grass.

They bounce along those ruled lines
Like grey eraser crumbs blown
By a frustrated school kid

Who can’t get the letters straight.
They migrate through the pasture
Like deer shadows, come to browse.

You could sit here forever,
Thinking of things small, dead leaves
Are like and never be right.