Soft sighing soughs
Of pine boughs
In south wind shifting first
Through aspens’ wet-foot thirst
Then breathing gusty voice on to them,
Those frothy moss-green fronds twelve feet long and
Eighty high in dove grey sky.
I walk the road below and remember,
Thoreau wrote, “Time is but the stream
I go a-fishing in.”
I just caught something. Netted it. Brought it in.