if only the birds had subtitles
the moose whose heap of scat
spans the trail a Go-Pro, the porcupine
whose droppings carpet the crest
inside the anticline a Roomba
so I could clean-crawl all the way
to tunnel’s end, swivel to peer through
middles of beech & elm, maple & oak
black cherry, their wornout leaves
swinging from spent stems, squirrels
& chipmunks caching, slanting sun
glazing scarred rock, if only the wind
would hold still, the air congeal
around October days until December
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