It was a cold and blustery afternoon, not the typical day for a beach walk. The floods had come and shifted the sands again. I was down along Long Island Sound, rounding the bend up the Connecticut River, walking past bits of detritus washed up…

Another bang.
This drum beat
loud and resonant
scattered feathers
the flying swiftly…

Breathing in and breathing out,
waves of thought like wind
rise and fall with the
rhythm of cicadas…

For I cannot tell
the flit of birds through
the flailing leaves
which is which
and who is who…

I must confess, I sing to the trees. They don’t judge. I think the nearby squirrel had something to say, but between her and the dense mist dripping from the trees, all was silent between the notes of my voice. Slowly as I walked, I could hear the distant wash of water over stone, where Burnham Brook babbled and had stories to tell…

I believe there is a reason.

There must be a reason why I can’t remember my birth. My original birth, 14 billion years ago, when all of what would become was thrust forth from the hips of a dot smaller than a pencil’s eraser, or so they say…

With autumn taking hold and the days of lake swimming coming to a close, I met Spider again, quickly climbing up the web among the vegetation that hangs across the small opening where I enter. We must negotiate this again…