Golden K,
you bend the morning like a wire,
slack with frost and fire—
I follow your echo through the hedgerows,
boots full of meltwater and old hymns.
Sparks in the hollow of your throat
teach the jackdaws new minor keys;
I tune my breath to the rust on the gate,
counting heartbeats like loose change.
When the light finally unbuttons the hill,
your name lingers—
a thin gold thread
pulling the day awake.