into the soft fold of fog
along the water
of Huntley meadows.
i see the blue tips
of heron.
the thatched backs
of turtles,
afloat like metal
hats in slow parade
the red winged black birds.
deer, as still as the trees, aware.
across the boards I go.
my feet striking the wet
wood that creaks
with my weight.
i see the blue tips
of heron.
the thatched backs
of turtles,
afloat like metal
hats in slow parade
the red winged black birds.
deer, as still as the trees, aware.
across the boards I go.
my feet striking the wet
wood that creaks
with my weight.
i return in times of trouble,
nearly every year.
and now i'm back again.
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