The Downwind Rut

There’s a rose bush up the way a bit
but the scent ain’t what gives it away—
it’s the downwind rut out front the shed
what catches all the breezes blow its way.

Today that rut catches naught but yellow,
a raft of petals dropped in summer’s stew.
The bramble sure as shit shucked ’em loose,
and I don’t need a turn to see it’s true.