Abandoned

I am a stone at half past five,

I make a ring with other stones.

A man rustles out among the trees, gathering tinder.

Stealing through the brush,

branches punctuated with hopeful green nipples

trace through the grain of his beard.

Water articulates his face

and I see it is a knot.

He tenderly clutches a

cold white egg, slits its form in careless motion above me.