muggy day—

a squirrel is swallowed

                     by a bush

low evening sun...

snails’ silver tracks

crisscross the pavement

motoring along...

first a red squirrel then a fox

                   crosses our path

a fresh day...

suddenly all the scents

of the flea market

exiting the church

to the echoing sound

of a banjo playing 

                ringing of church bells—

             the still river crashes

             into the weir

always still—a crane fly

appears for weeks on end

here and there