No wind that night. Hotter
than it should be. More
smashed pumpkins scatter

beneath the ridge. Why
not say it’s an homage
to the city’s own

devil’s backbone? What

was the dead mouse’s tragic
flaw? Being a teacher’s pet
in the wrong classroom. When

I cut myself on a branch beside
a wooden bench in the woods
to once again expose the color blue

as merely optical illusion.

Trail Rehabilitation
is coming soon
to your neighborhood
park. RATBOY
all up and down
the pedestrian bridge.
I can’t read detour signs
covered in tags. The symbol
for a trail narrowing. Bump. Steps
Not In Use swings
from a chain not in use.
The sky signals it might rain.
Three cars converge
from opposite directions,
let me pass. I become
the sign. Danger Ice
Not Safe left over
from last winter
when the lakes
never completely
froze. SLOW. No problem.
It doesn’t rain.

It ends somewhere
near where a giant gang
of wild turkeys

you have not seen
in weeks startles.
These smallest

deaths—a woolly bear
caterpillar permanently
stopped beneath

the overpass.
You know better
than to touch it.

Nearly finished
by a substantial disturbance
of Nordic bladers

as they pass you by.
Not a cardinal’s trace
interruption as it flies

from one grove
to the next. The greatest
distance ahead in collision

with a nearly empty
trail. Minuscule and alone,
you theorize all the other

runners

must be resting
and carbo-loading
in preparation for tomorrow’s

marathon. Your one
and only time
not so easily lost

in a tangle of other
borough memories
back east. In medias

res, the gentlest breeze
brushes your cheek
and a gigantic gust,

capable of great destruction,
could break free.
It could be the slightest

straw hue in the prairie
grass or blood red
of fully turned fern leaves.

You run your fingers
along the serrated edge
of a season that struggles

to start. And you tally
the tallest freight cars
as the train rattles forth.

It begins
with the tiniest
acorn that has fallen.

All that I gather
in this invisible basket
woven together with strips
of birch and beams
of lower light:

My gently placed shadow
as I move past a baby’s shoe
abandoned on the ground.

Shouts (not barks)
of a dog in the distance
and the shady side of a trail
that leads into the woods—
the one not taken this morning.

Covered with the shush
of my breathing as I approach
the lake. Where is the shallow

end? The shoreline?

Is this one a she? No question
about the sun-smacked, shimmering
surface, or how she (take a chance)
and her sisters became shape
shifters during a stormy summer.

Waves (not handshakes) I collect
from other runners
and the shelter of one of my favorite

tree canopies

above the trail just beyond
the water’s edge. The shine
of a tiny red squirrel and the shock
of seeing a young buck stand still
on freight train tracks

before he slips into the thicket.
The secret power of unfolding
a good-bye and brilliance to come.

Flasks of air
imported from the Arctic

Circle. The sound

behind the sound
being peeled apart.

Geese honk out
of sync as they fly

overhead. Eastward bound,
they know something.

I should know better.
No rabbits, no wild

turkeys to be found. Ambivalent
clouds become less so.

Thunder breaks the moment
into dozens of pieces. No,

I change

my mind. It starts.
I get wet. Rust-hued

leaves with edges outlined
in chartreuse remind me

I’m no wicked
witch before or after

the storm. During, always
ready to throw a flame.

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.

The buzz of dog-day
cicadas (not the periodical kind)
in trees throughout neighborhoods
I frequent on weekends.

Crickets too. It’s morning.
I don’t care what the experts say.
I hear them. And I hear a little boy
tell a little girl:

“I’m just saying quit
while you’re ahead.
While they’re still shaking
their tymbals.”

No, he didn’t
really say that last part.
I look down. Blood
and fur. Where did the rest go?

Stridulation. My wings
remain pinned. A white sock
pinned to the sidewalk
by a mini-bar bottle of gin. Empty.

So many wind & rain & hail
storms to recover from.
Seeing so many
uprooted old trees

hollows me out. Empty. Leaves
scattered across the trail
have not even turned. Green
is not ready to let go.

Behold the beaming
city viewed from a rooftop
terrace after dark.

This same city
some claim burned
to the ground.

Behold the breeze
that hints
of other seasons.

And branches—nature’s
fallen soldiers scattered
across this city.

Storms define this summer.
Behold bees as they hover
around evergreen debris.

They know something.
They always
know something.

A bolted bench
stands in
what has become

another crook in the lake.
Behold. Everything
about this moment

is bent, not

broken.

And that’s the point.

I almost miss the deer
that stands still as a heron
on the hillside
on the other side
of the parkway—those long legs
I envy slightly bent.

A male cardinal flaps its wings, red
as patinaed barn doors.

A true sign of August:
the prairie bluestem
has grown taller than me.
Before I turn onto
the western stretch
of the trail, I realize

a simile is like a poem written
by a junior high student.

A metaphor is

a cross-genre piece
telegraphed from an older poet
who recalls a senior level high
on psychedelics. Suburban
turkeys are hesitant aunts.
An invisible and unflappable woman

of a certain age, a female cardinal
flies by. I am soon a turtle

that traverses the morning
dew-drenched grass
beside the lake
that is bleeding
onto the trail
in a true becoming.

You want to walk on words
in sidewalk slabs
(the way you can
in cities with names
that begin with “saint”)
and seek shade
beneath a purple
leaf plum tree.
You say hi to a man
with low vision
just beyond a park bench
placed in a clearing
surrounded by wild
flowers gone wild. You
want to believe he sees
beyond. You
want to ask him
if he thinks summer
might have become too full
of life—thick
with a palette
of too many shades
of green. You want
to know who else loves
winter because you get
to stay awake
while others sleep.
Get to pretend
to be dead. You want
the robins to know
when you see
a hammock smile,
you smile back.
You want to pause
before an abundance
of silver mound
in a front yard garden
where the sidewalk bleeds
and bends into the parkway
trail. You want to ask
the duck in the foreground
if it sees
the perfectly framed
row of rose-colored tall grass
before a row of taller prairie
reeds before the lake
too. You want to join
the big black floppy dog
that swims in each
of the seven pools.
Instead, you spin
the stem to a velvety
wine-colored leaf
between your thumb
and index finger.