shelf fungi on a stump

even with these special seats squirrels still make a mess

fog at first light

pale clumps of mountain laurel light our way

slumming it in the leaf duff still looks fabulous

fine hairs stirring from the photographer’s breath

as if some logger felled a tree of ice

I don’t notice the hunter standing in a tree

I hold onto an apple core until it turns brown

even on land it still steers with its tail

a glimpse of twisted heartwood mosquito in my ear

gnats follow the branching cracks in its skin

two missing petals but still an immaculate shadow

I jangle the loose change in my pocket