Barely noticed below the riot of spring wildflowers, last year’s leaves are breaking down into a common duff. Towhees aren’t as noisy now as they rummage for roughage.
deer skull and spine
on the old skid road
stretching my legs
Even the once-waxy oak leaves have worn thin, though the tailoring is still sharp—a close fit to the planet, which I see caricatured in a freshly fallen oak apple gall, green and glistening, the remains of its hacked leaf sticking out like a hitchhiker’s thumb.
standing water—
a birch tree perches
atop each stump
It’s humid. As the air warms, a cloud of gnats gathers around my hat.
snap
of a flycatcher’s beak—
winter’s gone