Wind-chimes hallow my walk
between pristine blue and white
on single shovel-width path
past small and larger homes
down to my all-season magnet,
Among the still trees
unidentified flying subjects
emit intermittent tweets.
Some I attempt to interpret:
“See, see, see, see; hear, here,”
Suddenly I’m startled
by a man on my left saying
“Told to do this we’d prob’ly balk.”
“True” I reply “but we choose….”
Musing: told not to do this walk
I would prob’ly balk.
What could keep me inside,
avoiding this snow-packed trail?
How could I ignore these grand white
gulls, black wing tips spread wide?
Could I compose a soul poem
on a day without a walk?