Grasses, green from brown.
Mushrooms in the forest.
Gooey orange sprouting between pine needles,
shy brown and cream from the rotting log.
Clouds are clearing from the afternoon rain;
Trees are letting go their extra moisture.
Young saplings stretch and toss and bow
in the gusty coming of dark.
This road used to have wagons on it.
Men and women sweat, here, to make something:
old houses, sashes loose, floors releasing down.
Irrelevant fences stand forgotten in the new woods.
Green bark faces north.
Stars shift and roll, unhinged.
Bloated streams scrape the soaked ground up
and carry it forth to the sea.
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