The acorns have stopped bombing the ground and humidity clings around trees like plastic wrap.
No breeze-silent-but the dog’s ears flap to the speed of his gallop as he trolls the woods.
A line of spiders and ants cross my path hurridly;
their days numbered and a piliated wood pecker cuts the sky with a piercing cry.
I see my footprints from the day before- both walking and walking back with my stick, swiping webs from the trees.
A new shelter to gun down deer for sport has been constructed in the clearing.
The dry river is chafed and
aching; the river-molded stones eons old cry out in their nakedness.