A charcoal pencil from the fire
Is all I need to pen my rural oblivion.
But in my hand this pencil smolders
With a heat I barely remember.
And then I need more.
More than a cardinal,
A chickadee, a cedar waxwing,
And a crow can give me.
So I throw my pencil into a bed of embers
And send smoke signals,
But as with all dreams that dissipate
The signals get lost in translation.
I am left bereft of sense and sensibility
And retrace little tracks of tiny birds' feet to tranquility