I sit by the roadside
sandal in one hand
and in the other a shard
of some granite boulder
ground away countless years ago
by unfathomable ice
smoothed by time
a marker of change.

Across the road a scarlet tanager
appears for a moment
on a branch of fragrant black-berries.

I have not seen a tanager for years in these woods.

Were it not for the tiny object
that halted my haste to town
I would have missed the momentary flash
of a songbird above ripening sweetness.

Poetry Monday