Cicadas are more often heard than seen.
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I pause my search for you during a thunderstorm.
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I hoped you’d grow into a southern red oak speaking of your roots and the struggle for sun.
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Cars now run almost exclusively on battery power, and are easily ignored.
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I miss the corner where two maples tangle together.
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The city cleaves and the forest can’t.
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My usual walk by the creek has flooded, recedes languidly.
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When will this wobbly ground dry out?
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Is that a cardinal?
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The mud of you on my soles.

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