Turning Back Towards Home

Pine trees slowly bend;

Pick up swishes past the house--

All silent motion.

 

Bird in the bushes--

Silhouette in bare branches,

Flutters limb to limb.

Patiently they wait,

My two trusty garbage pails

For my weekly crap.

Nothing is stranger

Than the view from my side lawn.

(I rarely see it.)

 

The former white blooms

Hang round and full from the bush.

Now they are dried brown.

 

A log with mushrooms

Lies across the dry stream bed;

Beyond it, water.

Wind often whispers

As I round the same corner

Turning back towards home.

 

When I stand stock still

Only the wind is speaking,

In sibilant tones.