Hot are the embers to my open eyes
Always as I await
grounded turkey’s looking for flight
fist-ed fiddle-heads and ferns, as they unleash their plight.
I await for life to cross Shingle Camp Road.
Even though, infinitely, critical of how I am smitten…
Attempts are plain…
the beaver’s chew
the No-See- Um’s bleak journey for flowers…old and new.
I abide the noisy splendor of live free or die.
All creatures, great and small, renegades when movement collides.