Contemporaneous with flu season
with is before tax and after xmas
are the weeks I turn into a bison
too slow to catch up and too large
to be ignored by you.
By the month the swarms of pollen fly
right about the time that young gazelle
Jesus was hung on the cross to dry
I take to running through the copse
in wisdom like a fox.
Then summer rolls around like storms
of electrons too high to come down
to where I linger at the edges
of the lake that will be dry by
the time I migrate away.
Most of my thoughts are brown and fallen
by the short day I find and prepare
an overhang for burrowing and digesting
all the genius I ate all year while
dreaming in my cold nest.