After reading poetry It is almost midnight. I am hungry for words. I could have been about art, but I chose to read instead. I never dread poetry, to read it is not divine. To start writing words I need not wait for midnight. Hungry for words last fall, I walked a deer trail. I found a tree, no bigger around, than my fist. I could have missed them but looking up from ground, dry as a three week drought makes, one fell as though cast, and even before frost, how sweet that persimmon was.