The air’s been let out,
hardly any birdsong heard,
the bare bones of earth show.

November sun breaks
weakly on the cold river —
everything changes.

Antlers kept above,
he swam across the river
and disappeared fast.

Unbothered by us,
geese congregate riverside,
preening with shadows.

Clouds like a Sunday
pull over us as we walk,
criss-crossed in the sky.

We’re swallowed by it —
the clouds making a bright sheen
on the wide river.

Body smooth as stone,
neck like a flying kite tail —
sandhill crane in fall.

At the bridge’s edge
we’re thrown into the river
by long warm shadows.

Peace at the river,
deer feed on the other side,
birdsong in all ears.

It reaches for me —
late sunlight on the river,
not too late for me.

She’s crunching acorns
every night at the river,
evening birds sing.

Acorns like jewels,
smooth talismans in my hand,
crunch under our feet.

Clouds in the river,
all of our words disappear
and go to nothing.

Crickets sing all day
in this drifting August time,
before and after.

I can’t let it go,
my want of something precious,
something beloved.

Alone, I’m walking,
as the river current goes,
and things fall apart.

We walk with worries,
the clouds meet in the river
to see themselves clear.

And what’s my purpose,
bright sky over the river,
clouds lift all day long.

Evening spreads out
into every crevice
of the spring river.

Vulnerable days
among the rocks and water,
the warming spring grass.