it is always the trees
I notice first perhaps because
they are shorter, green
in the wrong months, palm-leaved
exhausted by the never-ending

growth they cannot escape
next, the grasses vining, matted
odd outgrowths of flowers
of unsettling crayola shades
knock-kneed, longed-necked fowl

I am transmuted towards
a single of the thousand and one
places, mysteries resisting
their slow-spiraling offerings
as I learn to sit still

the unraveling begins slow,
rolling forward; I sip tea
inspect the landscape, shelve
my words, and wonder aimlessly
praying for hibernation