“There are no greener pastures, gents: this here is all there is,”
He said addressed to us, but to the wind he turned a cheek–
A wet-streaked shield against the rain, his ox-eyed gaze amiss
And out of focus: Atlas bound by worldly critique.
We looked above us, from the field and to the folds of sky,
To rolling clouds, arranged like one hand clasped around its mate
And squeezing out the drops of life: the heaven’s falling brine
That sometimes graces grasses growing on the hardened slate
Which bears the carvings of our time. Yet as we turned to him,
I half suspected something more beyond the misty shores
Of grey above dear Cain’s rejected grain, and on a whim,
I checked again, around his constant-cawing Nevermores
We walked once more beneath the stars.
~Michael Danger Caskey