Poem 5: Of Chance

Brown oak leaves, the last ones,
flutter at the far branches of their trees.
We stood on the trail, watching one fall,
watching its stutter and glide,
riding the currents and eddies of air,
of chance, with our eyes, with the leaf
as it feints toward us, then away, to settle
on the rustling carpet of the hillside.
Look, I said, and pointed. And even
tried to capture the moment on camera.
Hawks coasted by, tipping their tails
like ailerons in the wind. You said, "More!"
That would be nice, wouldn't it?
To rise up through these updrafts,
to go beyond the mere literal.
Hawks, come back! We have wings, too.
On this rocky ridge, on a bench,
in this partly cloudy town, shot through
with glimpses of sun, we watch closely
what's actually there. We say: more.