I change my route home
so it crosses the fox's —
knowing where to look

our fifth kind of aster —
tiny calico blossoms
crowd-source their sunshine

water in places
that have never seen water —
no way out, no plans

humid morning air —
geese under the bridge startle
as I run over

retirement savings —
finally getting smaller
after all those years

I've lost the cricket
that snuck in with the paper —
I wish it would sing

cool mornings at last —
every fallen branch looking
like a walking stick

skunk scented air —
the farm stand takes down its signs
one crop at a time

on the edge of drought —
the doe tucks her fawns in
with stories of rain