fog at first light

pale clumps of mountain laurel light our way

gaywings

slumming it in the leaf duff still looks fabulous

fine hairs stirring from the photographer’s breath

I take a break from organizing my files

transported to the mountaintop food for eagles

as if some logger felled a tree of ice

shoes dangle by their laces where we used to climb

all the wild birds are scolding something in the hedge

I don’t notice the hunter standing in a tree

I hold onto an apple core until it turns brown

I pound a stuck storm window with a Chinese dictionary

even on land it still steers with its tail