All the bloodhounds in the world
touch down. Wardens come from miles around.

Last night a lazy dream, footage of a full range
tossing under storm, wild zydeco wind
up from the south via Hurricane Gap, leaves
in the air, gullies surging, foaming brick-red—
Van Gogh’s hair, sickle-cut, or General Sherman’s.

Grouse drum on hazy ridges.
Down the road a place called Muses Mills.
White-throated sparrows sing their whisper-song.

            All the bloodhounds
            in the world
            can’t pin it down.