The smell of the earth—
storm coming cuts our walk short,
vesper sparrows sing.

Long shadows at dusk,
the woods become different—
Robins run ahead.

The most distant star,
not certain of anything,
only beginning.

Spring sun radiates,
kinglets forage all morning,
the trees talk and sway.

Birds sing in darkness,
the wide blue April sky
opens with sunrise.

My roots on this hill,
talking to everything else—
holding me in place.

A flock of kinglets
move in the understory,
the moss greening first.

Eaten through by rain,
last year's curled skeleton leaf,
lit up by new moss.

Birds echo above,
lilies ready to unfurl
below the surface.

Once a house for birds,
I'm part of the sun and sky,
turning into air.

I sing in springtime,
I understand the forest,
dark doesn't scare me.

I wait and begin,
carry the branch, build the nest,
I begin and wait.

I'll sleep on this hill,
my long neck tucked on my back—
the pond, all I need.

I am changeable,
and I am always changing,
no thought of an end.

I will keep growing,
the dark, fresh loam in my eyes,
a knot in my throat.

This new growth suits me,
this green light behind my eyes,
these leaves in my hair.

A cloudless blue sky,
except for clouds in my head—
like a dark thicket.

Plotting my escape,
joining these birds in springtime,
at home anywhere.

The person I was,
the things that I thought I knew,
today, don't matter.

My soft-eyed dog lies
content after our long walk,
wayfarers, us two.