the black-throated green warbler
the very trees are smothered
in historic moss
before the first adversaries appear, when the path is still a magic carpet and has yet to reveal its serpentine coils.
the familiar trail colored by my train of thought, which might take me anywhere.
the moss grows fat
on the milk of clouds
we watched for the flash of a nuclear strike by day, and by night, the mysterious lights of UFOs.
the dry canyons in my moss garden