Wednesday, November 20, 2013


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.

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