Asphalt
lined with wet leaves
and moonlight

leading back into the woods
that no longer hide

the nests birds will return
to come spring,
where I first danced
for the sky
like rain

streaming toward dirt.
It is cold,
unwilling to hold the warmth
of sun that gives itself

a seemingly flat walkway
where rocks are
suspended in bitumen.

It refuses
to let my voice echo
through the trees
that call me
to sing.