A burst of sunshine
Rolls shadows across the road,
Breaks the morning clouds.
Butting baby bull
Playfully engages mom
Who's game for the game.
Back to gloves today;
In two days will be eighty;
(That's fantasy now)
In its own green world
Knob of moss on a tree trunk,
Completely at home.
Clearest where it's not,
The sun sheds its absence
In sharp dark shadows.
Like rotting shipwrecks
Dead logs strew the forest floor;
No place left to sail.
Blown down from the hill
Bleached log rests in road side ditch
On bed of dry leaves.
It's almost earth now:
The ancient rotting tree stump
Melts into the ground.
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