Here they come again.The long days suddenly impaled
on some thorn
melting
into
one long shade
on my evening walk
at Lake Chabot
passing newts
passing ferns,
I stoop for a look
for a whiff
for a bit of joy
and then
a well-known cry--
I lift my eye to
a tree branch
falling to the ground--
the voice of winter,
following me around.
