Walking through the woods looking at squirrels scurrying pine
cones falling through

We hear our silence broken crunching the violets growing wild
as a something falls,
though

neither us, nor furry blurring animals see, all flinch as a finch flies
away, alarmed squirrels scurry

our path weaving, gently deceiving tomorrow not seeing, focused
on the past, we scurry hurriedly on our path worrying
, do we possibly miss
today.