morning of soft sun
and old gold
with the distant yelping
of trucks going backwards
the sound of limestone
being ground down
and a silent jay
going from oak to oak
throat pouch filled with acorns
it flies off east
i follow animal paths
into the afternoon
*
a gray squirrel buries an acorn
under a laurel bush
sees me watching
and digs it up again
silk threads scintillate
wherever i look toward the sun
each lowbush blueberry
bound to the next
as if the whole forest
lay under a spell
a chipmunk rushes past
i change hats
*
low sun in the tops
of the Norway spruces
where golden-crowned kinglets
whistle while they glean
a raven’s hoarse
ark ark ark
and me pondering questions
of macroeconomics
puffball ragged as
a faceless old doll’s head
what fertile words of smoke
would you have me spread
*
when the leaves fall
there’s always some disillusionment
how much lower
all the ridgelines
how much farther
the shell of a moon
but i’ve been tallying
the mountain’s sugar maples
pale as columns of breath
moss-lipped
ringed by drifts
of glowing jetsam