Summer Leaves
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for Noble tranquility...
http://youtu.be/0ep2jhosYEM
Early Autumn.
Lazy Sunday morning.
Coffee cooling.
Reading poetry, writing pooretry.
Viewing artworks, editing photographs.
Eggs and crumbcake, long since
consumed.
Forgot by mind, by mouth
though not by belly.
Hawks foreground the
white puffery in the North sky,
circling.
Perhaps challenged by a corvid.
Something black seems to dislike its circling.
It’s presence.
It’s self.
The birch showers in newly not-green and softly serrated
leafery.
Dropping into cappuccino.
Into coffee.
Onto keyboard and camera.
Into hair.
Upon the unused chair.
There, beside us.
A carpet to inspire the sole
of the barefeet we eat in.
We ate in.
The rustle seems to murmur something
about the season.
The ages.
The world.
The hawks cry out.
Continually.
Distant.
They could be anywhere.
They are just there far over there
but
could be anywhere.
To place the call of a hawk is no
small thing.
To resolve them in the bluevast
no easier, true.
The leaves, seem to tire of the sky
and fall,
seemingly mostly,
on her.
She leaves them where they be.
A forest come home to its
Hera.
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018
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