They winter here beneath
the snowberry thicket
as if it was their home. 
In late spring they fly away.
To where, I do not know. 

I will wait for their return
when autumn turns to gold
with cold coming strong winds
when again, beneath the thicket,
they will poke and plod about.

I like to think they know me
these little brown skittish birds
who scurry about under the pine.
I do not know that they do not 
know me nor do I need to know. 
-------------------------------
Portland, Oregon - May 26, 2022

They are unspoken
written not nor rhymed. 
Living words telling tales - 
Sounds of wind, wave susurrus 
in deep green valleys,
on rocky headland shores.

Breaching leviathan hisses 
herds drumming the tall grasses
breeding in blooms of life
among an enthralled audience
of rock, thistle, coral, and star.
How they love to hear the sounds!
__________________________________

Portland, Oregon - May 24, 2022
 

Through the green gate grazes
the setting sun on pastures of blue.
Beyond the thicket wall spins
the world round its radiant hue.
Within, it is still across the garden
where I sit in evening repose.

This evening silent solace
serene in the last lights of day.
Let it stop that I may catch
the whirl, the wild, and the wind -
to see the green gate open 
on a world transfigured and reborn.
___________________________________
Portland, Oregon - May 19, 2022