Reading STATION ELEVEN

 

Hammock sways 

on a gentle breeze

between sycamore

and maple,

the book open 

and steadied

on my stomach.

Ant weaves 

through leg hair

tickling me while

a squirrel chirps 

not ten feet away

in the branches 

above my body.

Mind wavers

between worlds

where pestilence

resets time, or not,

and I am one with 

what was and is

and is to come.

***