Branch to branch to branch,
moving along as we walk—
Goldfinches sing here.

Friday on the bridge,
we see the flowing, blooming,
fantastical world.

The velvety bank
of the full, bustling river,
lush with memory.

Letting each one go,
moments fold into the next—
always only now.

Carolina Wren,
his song over the river
lilts towards sadness.

I see it in sleep:
the inky flowing river,
crushed velvet banks.

Fooled by October—
always going too far out,
for its false promise.

The first day of spring,
we’re lucky to walk this path—
every bird singing.