Woodbridge will now fade
in the rising moon, on the wind 
of flying hours;
                          the cold night
with clear vision,  taking off
your dark glasses and looking
for somewhere to land.
			     The trails 
I wandered through wet leaves 
waiting for an indian summer
are asphalt.
           	            I jump
at the rattle of movement
and tires screaming down the silence
of an October evening,
waiting patiently in the mystery
of the calm that surrounds afternoon

youth games: tiny feet turning the grass 
to mud, dancing on broken bottles
that are waiting to be sand, or dreaming
of an ocean or mountain to concur
in defiance.
                      Slipping
slowly across the vast distance
there are faces I even now can not draw,
lost in the design.
                               We were all friends
back then, cruising the valley
and looking for meat,  
		              wings spread,
a vanguard of the paranoid peace
moving across the lawn:
listening to the chatter of stones calling down
the suns deep red and brilliant orange
telling me its time to fly on.


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