Intersection in Pocketville

The scrub jay feels compelled to squawk
From its perch in the cottonwood.
The brook detours around the field.

The flight from LA to Denver
Flies overhead, and a pickup
Rumbles up this rural highway.

All bucolic, if you say so,
Idyllic, if you insist. This
Stubbornness of certain phrases

That refuse to grant your wishes,
Won’t let you articulate them,
Mathematical rules in verse,

Canon problems cast as riddles—
Here’s where the barbed-wire fencing sags.