What might I do, yet become
in the time I have, walking
on the thin membrane of existence?
I am not content as birds seem to be
playing in wild veering arcs
through the thrill of October winds
from branch to dripping branch.

I yearn, scrying for signs.
The coming winter somber skies
fill my autumn senses; cold
adding layers to thought as confusion
or depth. The colors of dying leaves
enthrall…then they fall.
I watch as they brown and decay.
Where are my wings, my play?

Portland, Oregon – October 23, 2019