Migration clicks another degree toward winter.
Time to move on. Rains scrub wildfires from that Big Sky soul
that this summer remained veiled.
Do you miss the obvious?
Did you take for granted a heart that is always open?
Time to head home, prepare for winter
long comfort that never seemed to arrive
silence battered by skidder, chainsaws, 100 year old white pine felled
crying everyday with each stick of wood I load into the stove
How do I live in this truth?
Birth coddled soul undulate vertical myths skyward
release this intercourse where a sun coiled fawn
is an embryonic ear twitching hair
late autumn grass.
Breathe
