Here is Movement

Amid wind-moved leaves

raucous blackbirds bicker,

tumble from a branch,

remember to stop

brawling in time

to miss the ground

and fly upwards,

orange beaks sparking

in the grey day.

In the gutter,

a reddish-squirrel lies:

it could be sleeping,

though it is not.

I spy his brother

running on a branch

and I want him

to be careful

lest he fall too.

A reusable bag,

urban tumbleweed,

rolls between the Edge

and the Rec;

chased by wrappers

discarded by the careless,

or left behind by

orange-jacketed men

of kinetic haste.