blueberries settled in a field 

starlit— 

recalcitrant in their stems 

 

away, an owl hoots 

yearning, maybe, for the turning of the season 

when the currents in the creek finally flow towards a yearning 

​

some reservoir of new beginnings 

hope for a bud, a berry, a thorn 

and perhaps, in the middle of it all, a blossom

 

chartreuse; a dash of green on the windowsill 

passing by indefinitely  

before sunset, and the blueberries let go from stem