there are times when thoughts
are like empty stained glass panes–
fractured and transparent

your hushed voice
floats above my head
with the clouds
and the wind
and my imagined memories

it is so satisfying to shuffle into the leaves on walks, to hear them crunch and watch them dance on the streets with the wind and the geese and my elongated shadow

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 end of an era can be
the passing of a year,
the passing of a day,
or the passing of a single moment

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