There is a white skein

                                                    of fungus

                                                    fast enveloping

                                                    in its many tendriled way

                                                    the bone dry

                                                    gnarled

                                                    shattered shard

                                                    of decaying log

                                                    I always mark

                                                    along the berm

                                                    of my daily treading

                                                    The sense of things

                                                    not in place one day

                                                    and coming into being

                                                    the next

                                                    is surely

                                                    a bewilderment

                                                    Like in the same hour

                                                    the Jackhammering 

                                                    woodpecker  

                                                    somewhere echoing

                                                    in the newly leafing in

                                                    trees  

                                                    Or later on,

                                                    the riveting repeating scritch   

                                                    of an unknown

                                                    single bit of

                                                    bird 

                                                    concealed 

                                                    in the wiry impervious

                                                    bush  

                                                    And, yes,

                                                    the russet wisp of 

                                                    of a thrush

                                                    bulleting

                                                    across the grassy space

                                                    where my body

                                                    is easing down 

                                                    for a time

                                                    from its days

                                                    of data jam weariness,                                               

                                                    that, too

                                                   And the east drifting river

                                                   over there

                                                   making a wholly fresh

                                                   claim on me today,

                                                   now a richer thick

                                                   and abyssal green

                                                   Never the same,

                                                   never the same

                                                   Oh

                                                   I couldn’t do much better

                                                   than to live in,

                                                   than to revel in,

                                                   these unrestrained revelations

                                                   for a while