an April morning turns torrid
it begins with a buzz
a rustle in the oak leaves
shed last fall
as a bumblebee emerges
spotless from the earth
below the damp bells
of huckleberry blossoms
and every dangling catkin
in the wind’s index
morels raise
their hitchhikers’ thumbs
each webbed with a maze
of forking paths
i find the remains of a list
in my back pocket
the washing machine has
erased every last item
and puzzled the paper up
like gray honeycomb
this is what happens when i try
to collect myself
better just to focus
on finding places
where i can step without crushing
fresh-leafed ephemera
a whiff of smoke from a forest fire
five miles away
i struggle up the hill in the heat
a black-and-white warbler wheezes
i find a spot of shade where
witch hazels have leafed out
sitting in gray among gray rocks
i’m invisible to a groundhog
who wanders past without
so much as a glance
soon i too resume sleep-
walking in the heat
my shoes turn
yellow with pollen
a bumblebee vanishes
into a vole tunnel
a mile down the ridge i find
a pile of owl feathers
just beginning to scatter
in the midday glare
