Anamaximand​er

Lying in the November woods Listening to the caw of crow and chip of Chickadee; Rush of wind through the canyon like a freshening stream, Pondering grey beginnings and ashen endings As afternoon falls quickly in the hills.
Time, an indefinite stream woven through, As a fawn runs white from shadows or fear Hill to hill, air to ethers, now and then blend into One. All pithy human attempts to describe fall like crumbling leaves Piling and crunching, composting, enriching the fragile soil. Listening, silent, i lie on the edge Between two worlds, or all worlds, i peer into the abyss; danger lies immanent. The woods are no more alive in the autumn Than the dense, rich forest is September. The cloak is torn and brown at my feet So i glimpse within the delicate dance Of chipmunk and wren. If i lie still and listen the movement awakens And the “relata” reveals chaos and harmony , Always movement toward and away. Rumbling echoes, a shaft of sunlight, It is all the November woods dying and generating.   i struggle for words or a foothold on the cliff Do i fall like a spent leaf surrendered in the wind Or victim of gravity, fallen to the elements i can no longer explain Lying in the November woods?
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