Poem: Weekend Walk

Don’t call it nature,

this mown meadow path

around the pond,

easement acres

with dairy silos in the hill creases
<br
and distant watchful estates.

Though bobolinks

rise from the grass,

knitting new flight patterns,

we keep to the trail,

ending where we began, at the gravel lot,

nothing unleashed.

This article appears in July 2014.