The Reverberate Hills; or The Apotheosis of the Narwhal

wandering in woods burnt out down to raw bare roots alike repining

some days you just need long low silent horizons, the empty blueness

that room was darker than I thought when I left it blinking into light

objective landscapes lie beyond the subjective visions we assume

summer was plenty, abundantly turning brown: what remains? compost

what summer's sun grew fall winds pluck and sweep away awaiting winter

glancing out at night where did it wander, the moon, unnoticed so long

clouds chase each other I watch the passing shadows what else have I done

a still dark morning already the air is warm scent of damp dead leaves

all his worldly goods everything he still clings to piled up on the street