It seems like rush hour;
Cars racing to the corner
Going somewhere fast.
Peering from the fence
Hazel feels obliged to bark.
What else can she do?
The mud puddle world
Where everything's much sharper
And dark shadows rule.
How the driveways curve,
Snaking upward with the sun.
Who cares where they go?
Through the sunlit trees
A bray blue hint of a pond.
Lone lake loon chuckles.
Old twisted tree stump
Reaches out to passersby,
But its cries are mute.
Attached to the dead tree
Fungi are even grayer.
Are they dead or not?
It's not always scenic,
This magical walk each day;
Death's a presence, too.
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