the beaver moon rises huge against the horizon, butting impatiently, massive in the orange afternoon, making way for twilight. the last leaves cling pathetic; having refused to fall in their post-green glory, they scratch mousy protest against the wind’s encouragement. i trimmed the grape vines back today, in preparation. now, in air absurdly crisp i stand, pink-nosed, bouncing on my toes with wind-beaten tears threatening escape, watching the plovers skitter over their glassy wet dominion. when does it get too deep for them to stand, in this sheen where the land ends, calm fresh waters meeting the sea. seagulls land nearby, swimming, wading. a few wander among the busy-footed, shore-obsessed flock, resembling shepherds somehow. they fly low again out to the surf then back to sandy business. the plovers, maybe sandpipers too, continue flitting to and fro. have all the geese departed?

your eyes follow the rushing plashing scrambling of a stream over piled rocks; an infinite hustle often roiling, lathered white and careening reckless over boulders who have seen it all before. here slowing to flow steadily, meandering, complaisant in the conveyance of gravity as it carries the whole waterway over an edge, plunging now to burst into foam against an impassive pool. all urgency dissolves in calm depths. motley pebbles and rocks are more visible in less excitable circulation, hiding still, decorated in soft greens that cling and dance, lilting in a watery breeze. the urgency of water is a tall tale: there is no actual destination, there will be no accomplishing. water stays in motion until there is no longer water, swashing drops into muddy beds, absorbed by greens, splashing from the fray, often drunk by a greedy sun or a needy creature. all along its course the water complies, adjusts, wending and winding and giving in. if your eyes could follow further, you might witness the final freshet out to sea, where stream mingles with salt, joins a tidal rhythm. each insignificant drop flowing through a lifetime, arriving as planned to the eternal ebb and flow, from which it never was apart.

I don’t need much to build a fire and kindle it strong so that it’s hotly lit in no time. I will bask in that light, dance around the flame. But I have been frivolous with intimacy, dismissive of potential. I might forget to feed the blaze, sometimes I simply run out of fuel. Enough time without me and the embers fade to cold. I regret that I let [you, maybe] go up in smoke. I will not again be so careless with a spark. I imagine new beginnings with less flare. Not immediately warming perhaps, but full of promise. I picture myself more patient, quiet so that I might witness the growth of intimate moments. The slow burn of tended trust.

he says the sky turns orange because the water in the storm is busy capturing city lights. on the farm everything goes black, they say. the clouds close in on everyone alike before the rain arrives in sheets, smacking against houses, sweeping down the streets. everything sounding out like the percussion section practice room. if you go out in that rain it feels heavy, pelting, and will sting your face if you let it. drivers pull over in that kind of rain rather than splash through torrential streams connecting ponds that were recently puddles. the whole world goes through the car wash, sheets of water slopping everywhere like a disastrous beaded curtain. oncoming traffic in inches of water hits your windshield like an honest to goodness wave from the ocean. the whole armageddon sky creeps overhead carrying the incessant fat droplets right along with it until suddenly the rain just isn’t coming down like that anymore. suddenly the sky is brighter, no longer a shade of doomsday. the rain makes a retreat no slower or faster that it came through, and you can watch it go. you can watch the retreating clouds still so black, still too heavy to stay off the ground. you can watch them continue breaking as they plummet toward earth, tendrils of dark sky following gravity, pelting the neighbors, now. the sky you’re under will change color again. lightening. the sun rejoins you, eventually.

in the chill there are leaves scratching, floating, constantly whispering. the sussurus of dead grasses. naked, lean trees sway in wintry breeze, softly moaning, sometimes creaking. the lilt of living wood. nothing to do but rest, now. the moon comes early to remind us.

Anymore I tell myself stories about you out of some lazy habit. They don’t even sit comfortably as much as I just have them memorized. Seems to me all mantras are some kind of make-believe. There must’ve been times we really paid attention to each other, but they’ve long since passed. I aint fixin to trust you with that kind of gut feeling again, and I am not sorry to say so. Truly, it’s a relief. I been missing what don’t exist, tellin myself tales. What you offered up firstly, what we found in our togetherness, I aim to find it again. You seem to be just going around handin folks your love all temporary-like, it sparks out so fast. Our light went out but the road goes on: I’ll make my own way and I’m sure you will too. From here on out I’ll content myself with whatever we have been when we were it. Happy trails to ya.

if the wind isn’t singing to you, the birds will

if the trees don’t dance, then the grass