“The Suburban Woods,” New Era, Aug. 1987, 24
As I stroll within my
I sense the night’s rebirth.
The light turns a warm orange—
from living room windows;
And the steel sky is lit by the
Infinite expanse of twinkling
The cool twilight air feels gray
Against my face,
And pink autumn breeze blankets me
I hear the soft, slurred rush of a distant stream
It hums a background for the crickets’
Under my feet I feel the crackling snap of
As I walk beneath the shadows of a towering grove
of telephone poles.
The daylight fades, and
The woods echo with the night’s noisy hush—
And the faraway cries of hungry
coming home for supper.