It’s one of those mornings when
I only see chipmunks
scurry across the wooded
Cedar Lake trail—never

with the urban gray (sometimes black,
occasionally white) squirrels
that try to trip me in Loring Park.
One of those mornings

when the sky
schvitzes with me, and
larch trees begin to hint
at the gold ahead. When

tiny soccer players
take over the field, and
a gardener trims the grapevines
without a whisper to reveal

the fruit’s whereabouts.
When I have not seen
any wild turkeys in a week,
and a lone (not lame) duck

swims in the muck.
When the tall grass gleams,
the green between
summer and falls hangs

in suspension. Let me not break.