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

you are always here,
even though you are there

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

while driving down a road in October
i pull into a wooded area,
turn off my music,
take the dog out of the car
and walk along a small path
surrounded by pines–
the trees are dressed in vermillion
and cadmium yellow–
i scoop up a handful of pine needles
and stuff them into my pockets,
take a deep breath
and head back to the car

you are long dead,
but my sorrow lives

from a distance, in the fog,
i see the gauzy shadows of trees
and as i walk closer
their lines become more defined,
darker,
brighter,
more substantial–
coming in for a better look,
reaching to touch a crinkled leaf,
resting my forehead on the damp trunk
i take a breath of cold morning air
and watch the geese land on the water

There are times when I want to burn images into my eyes. I want to save them in a secret golden box of visual memories for a time when I am perhaps very old, or perhaps very sick or perhaps very sad and blind to the beauty that remains constant in the composition of leaves and skies and foggy mountain horizons.