A bird sounds like a squeaky gate
and then I realize it is a squeaky gate.
Things pass out of my mind
with new names and associations
which helps the woods grow denser.
I don’t really have time
to be old fashioned.
I drop my pen in the stream
next to a red spring leaf
already rehearsing for the fall.
The main thing I do
when it strikes
is walk.

Slowly I learn
not to cram too much
pleasure into beauty.