Two men at work talks about iron

with gust and credulity unknown

to me. Last night's rain rusts away.

The flowers of summer leave a trail 

to the stream, to the West of the city. 

The residue of the clouds pass by

the delta of the labour hard hands.

The river gurgles, "There is a tectonic

shift nearby. 

Yet we build. Iron. Hands. Sun. Sweat beads. 

Published on April 17th, 2023