Sitting across from him in the pickup,
she realized she was tired of him.
She decided he was stupid, really,
his grip on the gearshift, cruel.
Day after day they fought,
and afterwards he drove the back roads
with his shotgun, watching the clouds roll in in
the same dun-color as field.
When he stopped the pickup to shoot,
quail burst from the weeds,
wings slapping air in strange flight.
So he went to her house to explain,
but she argued with him, nervous,
propping the screen door open with her hip,
fooling with the buttons on her dress.
Walking back to his pickup,
he heard the distant whirr of a tractor
moving slowly through the fields,
blades turning black dirt over
like an idea.