Her habitual trapsing is solo now
except for those forced marches
when she tries to imitate intimacy

So too late for the early morning
avian rush when the deep woods
take on the vibrant tones
of a well supplied sanctuary
she ventures out after the sun
has burned off matin’s due

With this peak of unrestrained foliage
she feels dryness approach the world,
her simple attempt at an absent-minded
chat with herself begings with the same
dryness that seems to seep

down the curved slope of her spine

Still a crone of crows care enough
to caw and cause her an anoyance,
but soon she’s mocked only by silence
and the ebb of phiscal yearn,

lean into it she says