Weary of my restive sounds
my rusted gate soul
I’ve gone away to sit
 
on a stump in the north woods
to watch dusk nudge its curve
across a meadow’s shrubs and grass
 
Real as night this boundary
more real than maps Even alone
 
I’m curled into those I love
and those I fear   Winds
riffle the limbs of spruce giants
 
who’ve outdanced decades–
the blizzards and lumber barons–
to stand and bristle with birds