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