You’d think a cloud would have more to say here,
hatting the forest where I sit as naturally as a
scally cap on a paper boy. but the sun taps our Stratus
on the arm, elbowing in for a peek below the canopy, and
all the while, there I go: declaiming news to the clover
and the mallards and the hemlocks like some frothy bard
who cannot read the room. they don’t much care, it seems,
when the stock market wavers or the politician lies,
and i suppose that’s why I’m here: we all have so much
sunning to do.
Sunning to do
I spent an afternoon in the forest with some hard-won success.
