When I see an outhouse lean
across the line of straight white trees
I like to think some birches pull it,
birches too far from town to know
of septic tanks or perforated pipes
whose only game is what they make and play alone.
Shot straight up,
the november sky,
clean as a pantone chip.
Sky bisected by a phone line
under a power line
beside the tree line.
Winter is coming
but not today.
