6 degrees.

The air in the wood is good.

Leaves fall

And a Blackbird’s call

Follows me through the trees.

 

 

My mind should be still

But. Like a mill

I find my mind grinds

And the bird is only half heard.

 

 

Would that I could

Be one with bird and tree

But useless thought

Has it’s hold on me.

 

 

Yet, sitting here

I can almost hear

The Blackbird

And see the beauty of each tree

Which yesterday I failed to see.