harvest

runaway
the words come to me
without my pen and paper
and I cannot stop

warp
I feel I am always
chasing the receding light
suspended in time

stroll
a javelina
wandering across the road
delicate as glass

thin
though I raced the sun
the twilight was long tonight
the day stretched thin

These are from my evening walk.
They start soon after I walk out the door.
There feels an urgency to this,
not to let these impressions slip away.
As if I would lose a part of who I am.
Is that what I am doing—
Gathering up pieces of myself?