Morning Poem # 3 / by Christina Rosalie

Swallows swoop in at the barn doorand their feathers, bones filled with air, brush up against the corrugated metal roof.

The air is rife with musk and hay and the hot piss of sheep pressing against each other in woolly urgent nearness.

The sky bends down closer to the earth now; blue tucking the edges of the vermilion mountains in;

and every vine heavy with wild grapes bittersweet.