A forlorn jacket absently left on a gate post warms in the sun.
No wind rustles its fringed edges, the shadow cast envelopes half of the green post
and its arms circle down around embracing the square metal pole.
Like a man hanging his head it stays; a resting place for both bugs
and lonely thoughts, both becoming nestled in its threadbare fabric.

It was a soft thing when it happened,
a gust of wind channeled down the hills to the small valley where the gate post is embedded in the ground
causes the jacket to raise its head subsequently losing its grip and falling to the ground.

Now if you listen close you can hear the bugs scuttling in their rearranged home,
listen and hear the lonely thoughts escaping.