The held cry of a hawk makes Thomas Hardy think
to make her believe it’s a newborn’s cry she hears.
Milk wets through her blouse. The other women know
at once. That’s chapter one. How it starts
to grow above his head the cumuli
accumulate. The August fields waver beyond
the privet hedge. He’s given up the novel
for poetry. The women look at each other.
One counts out change on a plank counter.
That’s that she says. Then exposition’s drift
to flashback: How a horseshoe loosens.
How when leading the horse the master returns.
Not angry. Only to get it done right.
How she presses under the eaves of the shed
with him while the afternoon rain comes down
so hard they are nearly soaked anyway.
The editorial omniscient bites his tongue. 
Innocent as it goes. The scent of windfall
rises up through the apple tree from the ground.
Some of the leaves bronze even now. There’s no
turning back but that’s getting ahead of ourselves. 
There’s Hardy. Shoes a disgrace. Canvas gaiters
undone and one foot on top of the ladder.