Landscape, with Returning Things

From a nest on the mountain, from the skirt
of the nearest pond— something has flown away

in another time. Currents spill their salt
and the earth changes garments. And yes

it is a different season, but somehow the same.
What returns arrows silently through the trees.

Fear does the same things over. And love?
The heart resolves to face, or not to face.

The head says keep, the heart says bend.
What can we do but begin.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.