branches of the dogwood
against the gray limestone mountain wall
and plucks leaves off the magnolia sending
them tumbling down Spring Street
as motorcycles roar slowly by following
necessity of “Steep and Crooked” hillside roads.
Sunlight bends shadows of the oak tree backwards as I look to
the east from my study window and in
the wooded hollow, light and shadows
constantly vie for attention bringing a
sharp edge to the peeling bark of the
river birch and emphasizing
the dark of the shadowed rock cave halfway
up the mountain’s east wall.
Just a moment later, as the sun begins to
drop, I can hear coyotes calling to each other
in a native language of hunger.
Always here, night
reveals the velvet darkness
of her soul.
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