Alone on my evening walk,
images start to stack up
like pebbles,

words fall into the pile, too,
prompting a wish for
pen and paper, because

the old hard drive in my head
is full and can’t snag what’s
running through it,

so I pull out the phone from
my pocket and speak into it,
recording my murmured words,

pausing my steps to add and fix,
the poemcoming like water,
like a susurrus of breeze

through leaves, like the ooo-ooo
of a great horned owl echoing,
then disappearing,

into the oncoming night.