that leak into this mountain cabin
come from birds. Chirps flutter
through my window from the shadowed
trees. Something cluck-clucks.
Something else elaborates on Woody
Woodpecker’s hu-hu-hu-WA-ho theme.
Tall pines stand ready to keep me
company, though needles and a certain
sappiness impede our closeness. Still,
I feel transcendental, making do
with a non-Posturpedic bed. If I chop
firewood, and lotus down as the stove’s
heat massages me, maybe the thoughts
market projections scare away
will creep toward me like chipmunks
with quick, flicking tails, scuffling
paws, quizzical eyes. Maybe
my heart will fly back from wherever
it fled when adulthood’s comet
cratered me. I’ll embrace solitude
like a faithful wife. I’ll kneel
and worship self-sufficiency.
I’ll shoulder that shovel by the snow-
door, and dig out the true me . . .
But now, across the woods, above
the yak of jays, and the whispers-
behind-my-back of evergreens,
I hear a sneeze—undeniably human,
with its mix of relish and apology.
“God bless you,” I can’t help but say.