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