After a run through the woods – In winter they are like unfinished Houses, sans doors, sans windows,

I come to sit on this mossy rock That overhangs the lake. Jutting Thoughts, if any, are left alone

To drift as clouds above. Wind is Blowing nearly west to east. Five Or so knots, speed of that lone

Fishing boat puttering around the buoy - Honking of an invisible Canada goose. Did it fall loose from its southbound V?

Lord knows! How and where I have fallen Through these long years, tumbling many Nautical miles with the currents to beach up

Here like a shell, slightly flawed. But this Poem was not to be about memory or Forgetting. There is the whole night for that.

Each word – that one and this too - is a piece Of driftwood I pick up to throw at this Endless pane of clouds. Splash! Farther! Farther!

I egg them on knowing very well, they will Finally wash up somewhere on some shore. I am A blue kingfisher bird, diving and drowning

With them, seeking to come up with, If only occasionally, = A dazzling trashing in my beak.