somewhere in michigan, mid-day, just off the interstate berries the birds have left deepen in their october blue as sleet dry-whispers into the last hanging birch leaves --
trucks roar past, all hurry and wind i want to turn and tell you that i loiter here halfway on the long road leaning back the flat miles in chains between us
yesterday a river lifted the year’s first few snowflakes i breathed the cold from your hair you opened your eyes over my shoulder and gasped when a raven landed soundlessly in the top of a pine
we saw the raven fly again but now I stop here to delay further distance to touch the berries and ask you as if you might hear -- knowing you will hear -- is the raven still there? does the green branch sway in this wind? tell me and i will believe -- is the snow still falling?
i drift among the forked trunks of the birches wishing for your small pale shoulders in my hands