We come together these dark mornings,
you at your work, I at mine,
scanning papers, making notes,
the rustle of pages, clicks of the keyboard,

The boy picks through windblown woods,
footsteps quiet on moss and damp needles, eyes
scanning the forest floor for green maple or oak.
His grandfather’s Laguiole jackknife

I watch at the front window
as you move in unison between the trees
then down the long, curved driveway
to where flooding from our neighbor’s pond