post haste

Out of the woods. We're not out of the woods yet. Night does not delete it's fall. We catch a glimpse of sunset. Only a slim silver crescent shines above the gray mountain. And, to the north, a large gray mass of cloud moves in. Like a blanket pulled over the last rays of day. It comes to cover the tiny crescent moon. We stand, as if transfixed, and witness this display of winter coming on. From Bridgeview to Bridge St., my heart moves through the forest. It travels the long roads and gavants through the holloways of the woodlands. Other women's men. Ghosts that line the side of the interstate. I fly by. They stand, unaware. I pick at the treasures on the ground and take them home. These things string memories of where I found them. They remain keepsakes in my fossil bag. I've known this land, with orange and red trees and dark skies for many a year. I dream of Woonsocket and a different space. But there is no ocean in the dense forest. Dream away. Long rivers. Dream away. Long roads. Even catching a thought passing out a car window is a dream. Brain waves caught those terrific songs of musicians. And the only one who hears is the crow in the green leaves. I've seen one before, watching me. He knows my face. He carries it with him through the only land I've known. I wonder if it will fade when I'm gone. When all of this will be a distant memory