One winter closer to my last,
A tide of chill out of the north
On the back of my neck.
I'm thinking of you, too.
I know, I know. Too is pure ego.
Tires on the hard road behind the hill,
Jets in the sky, crows in the air,
You know the sounds.
Here, the road is mud,
And the mind pulses for engagement.
The old poets of ancient China
Went so far and high into the mountains,
Their regrets dissolved in mist.
I didn't do enough for some who loved me most
Before I lost them forever.
Higher, I must go higher.
The flash in the stone,
The pale belly of an owl in a storm of crows,
Everything is what it is, and something else, too.
The snow turns to rain and stops.
