ground level
The condition of being
all but dead
is a great thing:

As the garden path
on the field

Whoever said
because there’s no one
out there,
there is reason
to despair?

The thunderhead
you see
sailing over the field,
purple, redoubling,
is your own

Buy fish
for Sunday dinner
as if you were
a child:
be certain
your money
is in your pocket.

You may try
to get lost
for fun.

you can hear
the frost stealing
off the hill.
windy revelry
The sky, a tidal sea, speeds by;
high winds ruffle and tumble clouds,
split by crow and gull flight.

At the edge, a piece of birch bark falls
passing sunshafts that penetrate the wood.
Strung in silence, thin webs flash
like neon tubes from tree to tree.

Flapping of a cardinal’s rose-brown wings
and I resume my evening revelry.

Barefoot on the brown cold ground
I dance the invisible dance of mayflies.

Mutations of dreams arise.

Now!      Moonless night —
spread across leaf and branch.