November, November

things I do not recall lending out

What happened to my love of birds.

Here, brushy woods, marsh and bay.

Insect, crustacean. But what happened

to morning? The call of towhee,

the hooded merganser of long runs?

Here is my boot, my pencil. Take alder, 
birch, the forest edge. Leave scattered 
savanna. Here, I am just waking. 
Where are your hands going,

as they move down my back?