We Are Between Storms

Today the sun has flashed in and out
like a knife being sharpened. The trees
appear anemonic, each branch & twig a line
you want to protect or stay away from.
Around noon I go into the closet and take
down two coat hangers. One holds a pale
blue sleeveless workshirt, old, recognizable
as a flag. I put on the shirt and unbraid
the hooks of the hangers before cutting them
with wire cutters, aiming for the shapes of Ls,
the long part about a foot and a half.
These two tools I bring with me down into
the flat, a wire loosely in each hand.
I begin to pace the grasses & stones
embedded in the hooved mud, trying not
to trounce the infinitesimal shiny chocolate
mushrooms rising from old shit. I walk with
the coat hangers like hip-high antennae.
As I move & stop the wires seem to think for me,
to pause and mull on place. Then sometimes they
pull toward each other, the tips crossing in
an inexorable X, and I take note when the wire
in my left hand swings wide as a dog's tail.
I am looking for the spot for our new well.