Warming Air


A dead horse
Across the track
So very large.

Two baby boar
Wander toward me

Tearing air
The hawk’s steepling stoop
Shrieks frustration
At the pigeon’s wing-clattering evasion.

The fresh bread
The hot fire
Wind in the treetops.

Swallows swale and swoop
Turning the viscous air
Like ploughs through soil.

Old oaks keep
Life long leaves
To last.

How many greens
On it’s bright palette
Paints Spring?

The growing cloud
Penetrates deep
The forest shadow.

The first rain falls
This first day
Of swallows on wing.

The warming year
Thickens the air
With insects.


About Jamie Nicol

Living in the forested hills of Catalonia, overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. Zen teacher, recovering philosopher, small-scale natural farmer. Writing just what comes.
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