Furrows

It’s a short view today into rolling gray

Distant peaks lost as a lonely minute

Cloudswathed

 

As I turn I spot the first invertebrates of the year

Harmless gnats hovering in my wake

A portent of an early spring

Perhaps

Or one of nature’s sacrificial forays

Playing the odds at a myriad of tables

 

Dogs have carved furrows into the moss

Tearing at my heartstrings in the process

I think how rare is this remnant meadow

A singular vestige of defining landscape

Marooned on this oaken hilltop

Surrounded by the ignorant

Who have only known cultivated playgrounds

And manicured lawns

 

Later, the fog will lift

Clarity will return

If only outside

 

 

David Trudel   © 2013