my feathers are no longer beautifu… they are weathered from the cold and so is my soul this place is no longer habitable… migration is the only cure

the sandy cement dampens my clothe… minnows dawdle in the shallow wate… that soak my shoelaces betelgeuse watches over me tonight as the familiar air begins to stin…

i find myself tracing trails in th… with each step the sun paints a new pattern among my skin trying so desperately to

it’s a still monday morning a yellow bellied sapsucker gently plucks from the bird feeder in the tree that hangs over the deck

i’m no longer seldom when i am under the stars i talk to them they listen they can not judge

through writing will be the only way i will be hea… if my words are cemented on paper permanently maybe then you must listen

i wish to stay for a little while… let the moss become one with my skin while the creek prunes my fingertips