Acorns

In the moving gloom we saw
snatches of some lost secret
snagged by a twig. There was
a snapping and a hissing
and the hunting cry of an owl.

Ay ay ay, we should never
have been so deep in that place
where the past is buried in
leaf litter and fleshless lips.
Alas, we were carried by
squirrels in their game of chase.

Dropped in a pokey hole,
we stay still as bones,
and wait for destiny.