Bit of a writing wobble. Time to get out of it.

Towards Resting

Some days are gentler,
smoothed by the wind
as stones slender
under the pressure
of many feet, and
there’s no rush,
we live for the brush
of a leaf, the cough
of a fox cub.

Patience. Silence.
To hear every crisp
letter twist from a pine’s
jostled branch, or
the long vowel
of an owl in the night
soaks my bones
in alcohol – lit later
by the smell of fire.