There is no wisdom on this late August trail
just gravel, wet grass, dim morning light and shadow.
Two crows on a bare branch,
clouded sulphur butterflies and shimmering dragonflies.
Someone warns of a black bear by the gate.
I want to write clever metaphors, deep and insightful
but come up with this. Over and over again.
Starlings perch on the grey, twisted branches
of an empty eagle’s nest.
Writer’s mind is distraction, but today just another breath.
What more can I tell you?