I know it’s good advice
to look outside, to walk –
to minimize the price
of time spent on a rock –

I know deep in my gut
that fate depends on chance,
and time spent on my ****
drifts in an endless dance.

A song glides in the air.
A song drifts in my mind –
The one outside is spare.
It cannot be defined

by notes placed on a page.
It cannot be rewound –
It only sets the stage
for music to be found.

The low points on the Earth are rich in rain,
and at the poles blue ice and snow,
and as it spins, there is no loss or gain
of matter. Wind and water blow
above the peaks of mountains. Glaciers store
fresh water, then control its flow  
across bare rocks uplifted long before
a pair of eyes would come to know
how changes on the land and in the seas
unfold until they’re fixed to grow
a redwood or a biome filled with these,
and shifts on Earth are not too slow
to satisfy the thirst of living cells,
or dig up what it is their story tells.

Of all that I have seen,
Of all that I have done,
I think the color green
is one of seven tones
I’d like to nurture most
So I can feed on light
and cultivate a force
to last me through the night.

A hummingbird zips by—metallic green—
Its eyes examines pastel reds and pinks.
It rises slowly, hovers, then it thinks
to move where other backyard birds are seen

perched low in nearby trees while heavy drops
pelt leaves, where claws grip branches thick and thin,
where balance comes to those who know they’re in
the safest place until the rainfall stops.

When raindrops fall the birds don’t chat or sing.
They may be fast asleep or in a daze.
The looming weather shifts, but never stays.
Like time, a storm is only a passing thing.

Birds get along with little—wet or dry,
They rest until they know it’s time to fly.

I woke up standing in the backyard
of the house I lived in when I was
fourteen. I was looking up at the window
where my brothers and I shared a bedroom.

I don’t know why I expected the light
to be on. I hadn’t lived there in forty-five
years. The two-story house, the red brick
facade, the garage with a staircase and attic,

the tall maple trees, the hedges surrounding
the backyard, everything about the yard
and house was as I remembered it. I was
looking up, waiting for the light to come on.

The air felt cool on my face. It must have been
a summer evening. I wish I hadn’t taken
the twenty-dollar bill that I found in
the top drawer of my parent’s dresser.

The water makes apparent
progress round a stone,
and as it flows, it swirls
beneath the tide.

And as a storm comes through,
propelled by daunting winds,
it spawns a twister circling
far and wide.

And in a dream I see
young bodies falling fast,
faster than my dream
can build a net.

The air and water spin,
and so do thoughts around
a peace my young mind hasn’t
silenced yet.

I was running when I came across this squirrel.
I was jogging kind of slow and so was he.
He leapt to the left, to the right, then he climbed a tree.
I waited for his head to stretch, to curl

Around the trunk and watch me as I passed.
I searched for him but saw no telling sign.
I studied every angle, every line.
I crept up close until I had the last

Square inch of wood around the tree trunk scanned.
My eyes ran up the rutted bark and there—
I saw no more than branches, leaves, and air.
I searched for holes, for a fork where he might stand.

But all I saw were lichens by the score
In countless shades of green. They shared their own
Unspoken statements, offered nothing known
Regarding one elusive omnivore.

I’m sticking to this tale though some might wince.
I wish I could just let it go, I should.
But I swear I saw him slip into the wood,
And I’ve been looking for him ever since.