Wet stone

A worm wriggles
through a loophole
escaping the
early bird.

Singing inside
a skunk cabbage
amphitheater —
a chorus frog’s
song carries
throughout
the swamp.

An owl’s screech
pierces the heart
of darkness.

My mind
wound tight
as a guitar string —
playing music
only I know
the words to —
I sing my anthem
in soulful silence.

Rainfall triggers
a stampede of newts —
their rough skin scraping
like sandpaper on wood.

Rain-soaked lawn
flowers yawn awake
and worms renew
their bodies in mud baths.

Lost in song
the drab sparrow
colors my world.

Standing
alone
under a
storm cloud —
feeling the
hard rain
wash away
my inhibitions —
readymade as
the puddles
at my feet.

A tree leans
into the wind —
tempered wood.

Branching out
with gnarled digits —
an ancient oak 
palms the sky.

Pink plum petals
plaster the pavement
Spring’s impetus.

In the saddle
of a tree —
a sparrow rides
out the storm.

A tender
blade of grass —
sharpened by
wind & rain —
hunched
over the
wet stone.