idle at anchor —

afraid of what we’ll learn

I avoid your name

some part of me still

under the imagined roof

of willow branches

caught

in the blue heron’s gaze —

last days of summer

broken bird’s egg

this tiny, perfect dome —

no longer needed

the sudden silence

as boots come closer —

crickets and their dreams

the last of the rain

singing softly to itself —

I take myself to bed

two raccoons huddled

at the edge of the storm drain —

weekend still slipping by

her shaky breath

a small sign of bravery —

the rain starts back up

first day of fall
another round of lay-offs —
petals floating down