A November Poem: Field Notes

The lush of the
Canopy
Made my eyes
Fill with glare
As parakeet palette
Glinted back at me,
A shine
Harsher than the sun.

Peaked and ducked,
Long rays from sky
To footprint pathways
Weaved in the breeze
Buried, then revealed
Like the letter W
In the branches.

Thick trunks
Crackled in chipped bark
Dripped in sodden sap,
As burly roots
Grappled at feet
Maneuvered around leaves
And across moss beds,
Careful not to disturb the mushroom meadow
In the curvature of
The letter S.

The crookedness
Of the letter K
The imperfect body
Of the letter I,
All imitated and animated
By lonesome sticks.

The creek,
Wide and shallow
As it bended about
The land,
Flowing in a fashion
That whispered in a
Winter’s wheeze.
Stacks of rocks
Water rounding them,
Swift in a smooth glaze
Polishing the stones and pebbles
As pretty as the letter P
Complemented by Q and
Complimented by Q.

Patches of grass
And bouquets of weeds overgrown
With their leaves
Golden in the morning
Chartreuse in the afternoon
Tuscan in the evening.
Shadowed script
Demonstrated in wind-tossed Ts.

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