KISS HIS EAR Brown corn bends as gusts knock things around, sky gets close enough to share her rain on the late-green hill pastures: this misplaced spring storm in the middle of winter, wind's wiggle up the spine of the ridge I ride on with Jeremiah Van Gogh, who won't share his vision unless you tell him he's crazy and kiss his ear. Meanwhile birds in black coats minister to the newly dead with beaks like scars and speak a biography that sounds like hunger.