Small spring

DSCN1823.

In the middle of a breath, raindrops come.
Counting falls away, the wind opens a valley
of no thinking. This day has been small,
no bigger than what my parking buddy said
about our friend who “got something cut
off his butt.” It was deer tracks in the yard
and new gnawed branches, reminding me
how high the snow was piled. The day seemed
like a grey beach laid wide by lowest tide,
the ocean of winter withdrawing on
a sound like that thoughtless valley.
You could be here, raindrops returning.

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