Blows

The world blows softly past his gaze,
amidst a field of new wheat.
There is something so still,
so solidly anchored, about his posture.
A minute before, he had swivelled
his head in sharp increments,
but now he is simply disappearing.

The whorls of dust kicked up
beyond the next copse
breaks this scene into dangerous life
as he lays his rifle down
across the paths of woodlice,
to nest with the field mouse.

The count of his breath
measures distances, possibilities.
Traps share a sense of tempo
with processions and harvests,
and a field is just as certain
as any other place of rest.

Cooling his face
against his palms,
he coaxes out the lord's prayer
and wishes that before death
he could shave himself clean,
for the comfort of the angels.