in the stories i tell myself
i am sour milk
good for pancakes
or a cat if i had one
sitting somewhere warm
fur shining white
i am empty-handed
and approximately dressed
but look how much pine
can be knit just from sunlight
evergreen needles
barely moving
though i feel an icy breath
on the back of my neck
coming out of the rocks
where i’ve arranged my seat
just below the crest
of a high wooded spine
the tall pine is hollow
with a stripe of dead wood
from a devastating flash
severing the present
from the past with its absence
of woodpeckers
i follow the shadow
to a seedling pine
on a small carpet of moss
laid out on the rocks
the stories shed
their owl pellets
time to hunker down and scavenge
the best bits
Rothrock State Forest above Barree
Feb. 3, 2024