poem

Bird-songs the birds sing
over us, like prayers … a blessing
the wind whispers, passing us in the woods; it does not look at us … hands in its pockets … it doesn’t need
to;
the wind knows us. The leaves know us. The earth beneath our feet shuffling through dry leaves knows us … knows where we are going … where we have been …
and why
we cannot stop –
not even for an easy cup of coffee. Turn
our collars up against the cold; pull our jackets more
tightly around us. Count our footfalls following a deer-path … when we lose count, we can turn around … or we can start counting again –

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