Mornings I 

take my way

down the bend

to worn-down   

stones in a 

cellar hole.

One step before

another, is that

not forward? 

Of course, the

lows here are 

wet with what 

was rain. I know 

I backtracked

to the point

where I lost what 

I’m looking for

in the sound 

of the field and

hearing it, I

stop in. I put my 

nose in 

ground. Flush 

to the edge

of that hole 

to hide from 

wind patter

that is returning.

Have I left it 

out? I thought of 

a way how: 

shadows of a 

few birds fly 

off across this 

old field’s face. 

Never mind. 

That’s not flight.