Coonhound buried in the yard
like an adage, saying chuck chuck chuck,
us winnowing small stones from the massed

clay to turn over in our palms.
You insist the land finds eras
of gesticulation, that it smacks

wheat from chaff. We’ve gathered
the stones in blown glass; perched
atop the stove, they show us

light when we strike a burner, light sloughed
from their skins, light accepted and then
given back. When we move,

you’ll rest your spine against the wire
fence and tap your bare feet
above the hound. With deliberation,

knowing better, we’ll spread copper
in among the hand-tilled rows. I will slather
disks of tin, paint them gold and black.