Overheard
early on
a Saturday:
slow
breathing
underground.
Animal stirring,
or a human, or
something older
than either of those.
The sages will want to call
what’s happening here
Spring,
but it’s much larger
than that:
it wants
to be out and away
from explanations
and plantings and
plowings and such
trivial scrabblings
as we provide.
It wants
to breathe easy
and here we are,
stuck to its hide.
It’s ready
to scratch.
Dark Matter 