Light slithers through branches, leaves
fleeting fingerprints on the tree,
as early spring arrives, but
stacks of odd
saxifrage
gives an angle
of approaching winter.

Pissing on twigs and rubbish,
a gate nearby is open, leading
towards a pond.
Why fear being seen?
No rules in these woods; no ground
for an offense
to stand on.

I follow Guthrie’s lead!
Nothing to read
on the back of signs
saying “NO TRESPASSING”