in the space between roots and soil i hear a murmuring, yes, like static but more gentle.
listen—the moss grows explanations that never were words. stories of
yesterday intermingling with sprinklings of
perhaps. i wonder where
does that thought go when it drifts
away past the crows who carry it up into
cloud shadows, forgotten between handlebars lopsided on
dusty roads. the wind tells me
something but i never catch the whole message...