You are something I'm not sure about
     like why leaves sometimes fall and sometimes float
     or waves sometimes break and sometimes don't.

The sound of us trickles in the streams I pass.
It's in the steady beat of feet and concrete
and it's the quiet refusal of moss to make a single sound as two feet pound.
     But another pair might make a sound? Wake the ground? If I churn out rhymes will you get in line?

I'm a single set of feet
crassly attached to a fog and wind and atmosphere of you.
For you are as present as the hawks that circle and the fog that rests
and equally hard to touch.