Coyote scat and a burnt umber mushroom. Patches of sunlight as thick, but not as white, as autumn asters.
The constant chirp and chatter of busy chipmunks, the warning of a bluejay, and the distant hum of a tractor cutting hay.
A single red leaf hovers for a moment in front of my face, then sails back and forth and back and forth with a boat, like a crescent moon on its back, until it joins the others on the forest floor.
I peer into the hole in the pine tree and I want to go there.
Soft cave of rotting weathered wood. A grotto, the rain doesn’t reach, where I could sleep if I were a small mouse. I know there is another way out, a secret passage I can’t see.
I know I can go there and feel safe
when I wake up in the dark
afraid
Maria: I know it’s a pain to get ‘suggestions’ from readers, and yet…I see in my mind a book. A book of prose poems titled “Into the Orphaned Woods.” I couldn’t help but say so. Your musings on the woods are deeply poetic and layered. You are an excellent writer, stronger all the time. I’ll say no more, except thank you!
Thank you Kim, that is a wonderful compliment. 🙂
In the top picture, I see one of those pigeons peering out.
Oh I see that Carolyn! good eye….