The signs of change are subtle but abundant…

Each fall, nature gives us a glimpse of the path back in.

—Richard Vacha, The Heart of Tracking

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Outward an owl alights into the tree behind your head

a white flash in the pine, a man’s voice near the ground

there is litter, half-wet leaves, a paper bag still rounded

tallboy shape under voluptuous ivy, black star-free stipple

the river water shushing sound attracts/distracts attention

one is swaddled by the embankment in the pregnant wet chill

it is traffic air moving sonorously in a lullaby murmur

augur of death on silent wings—the voice of your father

starting to depersonalize with age, uncertain of its place

which unmoors something, ballast slipped free of anchor

crying in this dream place rife with currants & wild cherry

one foot lifts off, a circle half sprung, one foot returns

snapping night twigs, bewitched startlement, blind saga

through the rhythm we re-mind our way through, O mother

through the way, stomp-step rise-settle turn-move, breathe

behind your head is a light, each turn casts a life, an offering

sweeping clean with soaproot, delta mouth & ocean

from here all directions accompany us home

inward just the crux at midnight bend.

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