I’ve got to know you quite well. The seasons are rich and cold and vibrant. Leaves hide the path. Snow drifts. Narrow roads. A track. Windows that I clear. Look out from. Some days I run past not wanting to see. Just a river. Endless sheep.

 

I take time to look, turn around, untie the gate. The same gate on a windy day. I twist the rope in my hand. Everything is quiet and slow. I can hide. Leave no trace. In the kitchen nearly every plate and cup is cracked or chipped. Water runs cold. There are starlings in the field.

 

listening

to leaves before the wind

blows

 

a butterfly

just outside

my grasp