"First Snow."
A rabbit has stopped on the gravel driveway.
Imbibing the silence, you stare at spruce needles.
There's no sound of a leaf blower,
no sign of a black bear.
A few weeks ago, a buck scraped his rack
against an aspen trunk.
A carpenter scribed a plank along a curved stone wall.
You only spot the rabbit's ears and tail.
When it moves, you locate it against speckled gravel.
But when it stops, it blends in again.
The world of being is like this gravel.
You think you own a car, a house, this blue, zigzag shirt.
But you just borrow these things.
Yesterday, you constructed an aqueduct of dreams
and stood at Gibraltar, but you possess nothing.
Snow melts into a pool of clear water.
And in this stillness, starlight behind daylight
wherever you gaze.