Telling: Streams & Logs


season of linger

cupped in the dark of first day
waiting for some must to move me

lulled by this one’s feathered breath
and that one’s quiet step

I linger

somewhere close the dog lifts her head
and rests it down again

a bird calls out sharply once 
or twice and then thinks better of it

soon soon I will rise and descend
brew a cup of ancient tea
accept the mystery
of a taste so native to me

the dream tide recedes 
leaving rivulets in the sand

the brush strokes of the traffic
raise a brave flag that calls me

soon I will