Robin blue welcomes us to the woods.
Zinnia roles in someone’s excrement, perfuming her neck for the walk. Hoping to go unannounced she crashes through the leafy undergrowth.
It works.
She flushes out a woodcock,
the whirring,
rusty, creak
of rusty orange wings
as it lifts from the ground and tumbles into the tree tops.
I lean into the mother tree
A shagbark hickory
creating a circle with her offspring,
surrounded
my feet grounded on a carpet of broken hickory shells
trying to see with new eyes everything I have come to expect.
You should put all your pomes in a book, I think they are wonderful. I can picture everything you write.
Thank you Uta. :) You have given me a great compliment, but even more knowing that my words bring you pictures!