sitting in the sun on the hill, i listen to a dying tree leaning against its neighbor, creaking in the wind.
Forsythia and Well House
spring equinox at Hearth Hill
welkin flowstone
moon over Appalachia,
winter’s waning glow.
forgotten fodder,
where sun peels back the blanket:
feathered flurry.
the reflected silhouettes of leafless trees fade into the murky mirror, the now sunless river, whispering:
day is done.