18

I tend to look at the clock
once or twice a week
when the numbers
are my birthday.

Sometimes three times.
It means nothing.

In the woods today
the clock thing didn’t happen
because I’m practicing not looking
at anything other than the woods.

I took seven pictures
of various patterns in the birches,
which aren’t white—though
we all agree to call them that.

Sometimes silver. Sometimes gray.
I’ll look back at the pictures,
never show them to anyone.
I might tell you about it.