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Present Progressive

the leaves
are blowing–

dead oaks and
paper wisps of
remnant birches.

beeches yellowed and
parched
brace against
the incoming gust then
abandon their stasis

as the wind
rustles elevated trees and
spirals into the
canyon of the driveway
donning a small
hopscotch of movement, the
leaves

are blowing. there is
no other way to say it.

the leaves are
blowing. leaves

blow; they move; they
flop and turn, tumble and
float; but not these–

these letters drafting
from high branches
with their testament
of weatheredness

are blowing. the wind
is gusting. I am

trying to be
present as these moments
are progressing to be
tricked, verbally speaking
into the inactive.

these trees
are watching; the cat
is following the
errant chipmunk who
is scurrying in a
frenzy between the

open mulch of last year’s
woodchips and
the wood cover of the
porch stairs. they are playing

imaginary tag, the cat and
the chipmunk; the leaves
and the wind, and they
are active and

inactive like
the blacksmith who is sitting
and contemplating
the fire, the iron, the
movement before
it is time to strike as
the present

progresses into
the steely sum of
non-movement.

the earth is waiting for
its next hopscotch
moment; the cat is
moving her eyes with
darted precision. I am

staring into the
cortex of it all, the leaves
with their wandering lines and
pointed stems are
staring back.

by Amy Nawrocki

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