the footsteps of the wind
approach at altitude
signal their arrival
these plastic bags in trees
announcing their intent
the needles in the breeze
poke holes in the gaps in the silence
which melts into
the grey white noise
of tarseal pressing tired flesh
and then it stops
and starts again
and leaves me thinking
of whether this is good and great
or can never be that way
this weary sense of now and forever.
