Branches hold the moon —
geese call and fill the whole sky
with sounds of leaving.

Wind on the water,
an eagle coasts and disappears
above the river.

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

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

Each one an arrow,
seven geese honk in a V —
a world of their own.

We set our watches
to the heartbeats around us —
sun coming in and out.

Bound, bound, bound, bound, bound,
the freedom of the blue sky —
bound, leap, jump, walk, run.

The dawn like a grave
of the most beloved one
we didn’t protect.

Being here is strange,
beauty at every turn —
and still, the worry.

Their calls peal across
the river, telling the time —
finding each other.

His nose to the sun
in the warm November grass —
it seeps, seeps, seeps in.

Sun caught in maples
on the first of November —
the chill comes in quick.

A nuthatch honks and
hides in the pines as we pass,
the gingko, pleading.

Sun dogs overhead
while the gingko holds its leaves
as a third false sun.

Red in the sunlight,
wall-screw moss grows in soft lines
like a universe.

The path disappears
behind us as we’re walking,
we never notice.

It’s coming undone,
the tree that lost all its leaves,
shadow in daylight.

With sad recklessness
that doesn’t see tomorrow,
you lost yourself.

The rose breaks in fall,
the moon is a silver bowl,
stars gather in both.

Slanted in the light
at the evening river,
four glowing oak trees.