Camera quick, snapping sparks from air,
hands that frame hammers and nails,
ladders leaned like spines on ribs,
his Stetson a crown against time.
Quicker than the bark splitting wood,
his fingers knowing the grain\'s past,
cattle lowing in rhythms of dusk,
hat tipped like the edge of an old moon.
The barn door groaning beneath his weight,
bolts fastening light inside its gait,
a lifetime bundled into thickened hands,
posing briefly, stiller than a shutter’s spit.
“Is it done?” hovering after his boots,
the errand never ends but circles wide,
splinters become steps across the land,
and roofs like film frames hold the sky.