The copse of yellow-green
trees isn't sure whether it's
Spring or Fall.
(It's Spring.)
The breeze coming off the
snowy mountains across the valley
thinks its winter.
Only the wildflowers &
some feeling I have inside
know it's Spring.
heavy-headed thistles
sway in the cow pasture,
bees read their motion.
drying cormorant
folds up its wings, resigned
to grounding by rain.
Wind buffets the hilltop;
I lean into each step,
Bracing against the blasts.
My jacket snaps like a flag
That waves in the wind
On a tall pole.
At times, I feel light on my feet --
Disconcertingly so --
As if a few more miles per hour
Of windspeed and I'll be airborne.
I curl my toes in a futile attempt
To grab the lining of my shoes,
Shoes that aren't solidly affixed
To the ground in the first place.
The boulders on the hilltop
Channel the wind:
Speeding it up,
Swirling it in eddies, unseen,
But which attempt to swing me
About - square dance style.
I will be sore tomorrow or the next day --
Sore in my core and in my feet,
And I'll wonder why...
Turtles sun on pier foundations
at the very edge.
So that upon the merest glance
They can slip the ledge,
And sink down into the pond's depths
To hide amid the murk.
Those who aren't shy can never know
Just how hard is its work.
a starling stomps,
like a masked bandit,
across dusty earth.
a single lily
stands out in a pond of pads:
bright to browned.
sprawling tree,
laid asunder by its own weight:
a crack plus time
Tiger Riding for Beginners 