Rambles

At the time when white ashes are turning all shades
      but green,
the massive white oak in the pasture
shows no hints of its crimson glory.
That will come in time with sun and frost.

But it’s now I hear the music start,
voices in close harmony, and want to find them
and slip into the dimensions of such perfect sound.

On a Sunday morning just after sunrise,
a coyote strides across campus thinking she’s alone
(but for the rabbits).

Can you see her?

I hear the voices again and let them carry me
on the breeze that song dog is sniffing
as she follows the edge of thick brambles
beside a long green field where later that day
      (thirty years ago),
I come upon two teams of women in rugby tangles
and long wild runs when the ball flies,
the players as strong and tough and beautiful
as the rampant blackberries I’ve been picking
up in the hills west of town.

My fingers sticky purple with juice and blood,
the music picks up its pace.