high summer

the tree barks have finished shedding
and now only the occasional curly bit
scuds along dry pavements. i imagine
industrious creatures snatching up
every sycamore scroll by tooth and
talon, dragging them off to hidden nests.
i can only guess they have used them for
artistic purposes. how else could those
great grey wood peeling drifts be used?
were they carried off before the street
sweepers made their rounds, and did
every animal get enough? why do i
find myself always pondering sycamores,
always staring at the firm young layers
of new skin on every tree, always feeling
there there is some mystery here worth
searching out? outside the sky has that
unstoppable color of a stolen glance,
at once admitting nothing and everything.

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