Late autumn forest yellow gold leaves thin silver branches drawing white semi-light into crawling root darkness-not-darkness waiting-not-waiting for spring winter nothing dead nothing reborn tomorrow wind bent rattled touched hands forehead pressed into something TREE not solemn wise divine bone blood organ chakra signals to-from minds all hidden born moved returned hidden born moved returned
This weekend, I started writing. Agnes said, “Let’s go.” We went. Paddled. Pitched the tent. Decided to sleep under the stars. Heard loons, owls and coyotes. Thought we could more-or-less spend the rest of our life in that moment. Got up early and paddled back. Saw some loons. Made it home in time for the protest.
Eagle has scattered
black feathers and scraped bones
all along the trail.
Last week she waited
on a low branch, lifted, dropped
Crow’s wings so I’d know.
Standing still. Wet snow
falling on my shoulders
like soft footsteps.
I’m learning to speak
with breath. Near silent. Somewhere
between wind, something else
and human being.