This effortless mind retrieves creaky and warped planks under foot,
and hears a scary snap in the ropes slung over Connetquot River.
Wanting to see summer trees on two banks, dipped and dried,
we could step across on the exposed stones,
but we aspire to swindle and loot a beauty preferable to its promise,
where even silvered, weak and wind-worn timbers are venerable;
and if, in flight from whipping bridge to wet gravel,
we entertain regrets, we lunge yet aware into cracking.
Screeched pleas to the far forest must happen often
between the clouded blue sky and everything else,
like so many formless songs sung to scare the Buddha away
from haunting a home we suppose to be there, mid-air.