She found them on the tidal river not far from the house—
Winchester cartridge, duck and pheasant load,
and the extra-light Michelob, its metallic hues gauzed in mud.
In the yards scattered along her road, poverty is laid out
casually—yesterday’s engines, a trailer’s soggy remains.
Odd goods and small cash travel hand to hand.
Census workers muddle through—
what is a residence, a garden shack, a bathroom?
(Her wooden throne, screened in, balances above a composting bin.)
She needn’t be afraid for lack of walls.
Hunters keep their eyes on dwindling flocks.
Black ducks drift in fog.