You were never lazy with your shoulders. When you lay down in the charred clover you knew nothing of what you gave away. That gull in the sky again. Thimbles along the sill. There’s whirring here. Whirring over there. Still, the discoveries of a 90-second split really kill. The drone in your eyeballs and every fire-soaked blade. Your hand, later, still holding the hatchet. Deathly plover in the middle of calling.