Williams saw colors, the red
of the wheelbarrow, the white
of the chickens, the indeterminate
glaze of rain. Dared to write it
down in its complex simplicity so
that the backs of chickens
never looked  the same

nor the battered Radio Flyer
hauled again and again from
the barn. Today, the broken glider
rocks in the rising wind ahead of
the front that will bring storms, birds
gathering at feeders before dawn.

For now there is the trick of sun
and shadow, orange breasted robins
splashing in the birdbath, the burst of blue
chicory along the edge of the ditch road
a harvesting of colors almost enough
to ward off what’s coming: the lack,
the absence, the blacks, the grays.