A roe deer in mist. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
It’s way past time to start heaving:
unplug the air boxes in the harmonica,
bracingly slow,
“No!” rising from your throat
like deer across a road:
there are always more where those came from.
If only it were as easy to eject
as swallow
the field around you,
homegrown or estranged,
abandoned,
heaving plentifully at low cost.