I sit in my ribbed backed chair and bow towards Autumn—
springtime blending in with the leaves of winter & summer
shooting arrows into the black-backed brigade

I wonder at the weather these days
taught and tense in the morning &
easy, nearly sweeping, in the morrow

my own marrow sucked by the cascade winds
that ravage the lonely landscape
looking west for sunshine.

With fingers pointing, the pine leaves
shoot upwards, mingling with the mists
of the St. Louis Wa’ahila ridge

and the depths of ache in these calves of mine
as I climb the broad-banked sidewalks
to rise to the bird whistles.

Yes. I stand in salute
to the bird whistles, too
and to the breeze-backed
winter sunshine.

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