An empty bench watches the sunset.
Wood and iron: worn and ornate.
Pink light falls on it brownly.
Another bench. It's beneath my desperation.
The leaves at my feet rustle. I look up.
It's like a cathedral. The redwoods sky over winter's vicissitude.
Emerald now. The high green captures the crow's dim calls.
Soft, soaking bark. A winding trail.
A gentle incline, but not high enough.
The air smells like wet blankets. A vein of riversound catches my attention.
I can say that I stood here, that I looked up, that I looked down at my feet.
But I did not sit. Perhaps I should've.
Perhaps I will next time.
Howland Hill, near Crescent City, California.
Photo by yours truly.
Poem from For It All.