A twenty-inch feather with black bars. Stones I’ve picked up.
An acorn with its cap beside it like a cup.
Chunks of gypsum from a mine I explored,
a postcard of a heron—eye glittering, not bored.
Pens and pencils nestled in a metal box.
A magnifying glass for peering at flowers and rocks.
A clump of lichen, gray-blue, smelling like smoke.
One pressed leaf with a black spot—from an eighty-foot oak.
Dusty gold wing of a half-eaten moth—
so slender it wriggled in, hid under a cloth.
A three-pronged branch tip—with unopened buds.
Whatever ripe swelling, they ended up duds.
Ahead through the glass stand our woods going bare—
pine needles, dappled ground, color smearing the air.
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