Step onto the dark-worn footpath. The Thames
weeps slowly into London, then sweeps back,

In the moonlight, the pinecones glowed white against the patchwork of the forest floor. Their seeds had long ago sought refuge beneath the ground. It was going to snow, a thick muffling snow, the first heavy snow of the season. It was the last chance for collecting pinecones before they, too, would become hidden.

I remember when everything mystical 
was connected. The dark repeating tuh-thump

We return
to the clay that formed us
stamped with a skitter of tracks,