Windfall.
This stone some hand has set into
the shallow creek. Current now
shares its' shape.
Midstride upon the ramp some
wind-borne intent breaks my motion.
Face-to-face into autumn-night-whispering.
Wind is a story to be, becoming
the skin of where it has been.
The creek forgotten by the city, gone wild,
warehouses gone silent, homes dark
beneath their lambs' blood wreath, and
within one glove, the mystic western hills
gone to night aswell,
but with eyes open and - hunting.
Juniper and honey scented, shimmering
and bound for mating, eastward tide
following me home, for a time.
The crackle of dry leaves underfoot.
These slight things wind gathers and
carries beyond casual telling.
These things that almost never were.
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