Yesterday i watched a hawk swoop down
and catch a little field mouse in the brush by the marsh.
It walked with its breast held forward and snow-white
underfeathers fluttering in the crisp wind.
Occasionally, the hawk looked in our direction
with what appeared to be icy superiority and
casual indifference.
But i was aware, that she was aware, of my breath
and my smell and the slightest movement from
the curious pup at my side.
the grey fog
matches my grey eyes,
the various tints on a mourning dove’s feathers,
the shadows in birch bark,
and the worn wet wood of the river docks
the end of an era can be
the passing of a year,
the passing of a day,
or the passing of a single moment
bobbing gently,
his thoughts swim with
the swift river currents
a whispered breath,
exhaled and wistful
the world wants
and collects
and demands–
and i wonder what the trees think
when they sink
into their growing obligations
and seasonal dress codes
you are always here,
even though you are there
forever frozen–
that word outspoken,
the piercing of a hazy dream–
a quiet torture,
a blazing scorcher–
an everlasting silent scream
i fly amid his thoughts–
safely sleeping
in hidden alcoves of worn memories
the way the sun rains on leaves,
pouring its heart out,
spilling heat and light
over each scalloped ruby,
inspires a gentle and quiet reverence
spanishwoods 