vole, rabbit, another rabbit,
skitter from the turning wheels.
dragonfly on wings of mica,
and monarchs, fly with me, next to me,
across the handlebars of my rusted red bike.
i watch the shadows grow longer, a little longer.
not a soul around -
save for the brown wrens,
who sing their complicated song
to the crown of blue overhead.
sturdy swirls of hay are ready to be spread in open fields
i am giddy at the barest hint of russet,
give thanks to my friends the oaks
for their cool respite from the dappled sun.
my tires turn and crunch over crushed brown stone
soon I must return to all kinds of obligations
but the tall grasses urge me on
not just yet
not just yet
the wrens titter, and agree.
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