Simmering paths of my headlights steadily deadened through the fog through the dark as I come upon what seems a sudden encampment on the
this morning, the pond looks like marble. Rose and charcoal dissolving to dove, to guava, rouge. Only mallards pushing holes in the glass, so
no swath of light, no smell of warm wood shavings. A rain-coming scent. Last leaf in wind. Walnuts on the deck bleeding ebony. I