if only the birds had subtitles the moose whose heap of scat spans the trail a Go-Pro, the porcupine whose droppings carpet the crest inside the anticline a Roomba so I could clean-crawl all the way to tunnel’s end, swivel to peer through middles of beech & elm, maple & oak black cherry, their wornout leaves swinging from spent stems, squirrels & chipmunks caching, slanting sun glazing scarred rock, if only the wind would hold still, the air congeal around October days until December