For years I have been sure that there’s a poem in the woodshed. Today, I seem to have found another fragment:
autumn wings
Speeding bus
startles
a flock of leaves
into flight
perspective
The field is stippled with mole hills
and I am glad
I am not an ant
I could also be glad that I was in the sunny field and not in the distance beyond, where the sky is decidedly ominous. And that we’ve had a few mostly dry days and I wasn’t knee-deep in mud trying to get a decent picture. And that they were mole hills not cow pats…
There are, as has been pointed out by others, many reasons to be cheerful.
here today
For another hour or so, it’s St Andrew’s Day. Not only is he the patron saint of Scotland, but also of Russia, the Ukraine, Greece, Romania and a lot of other places; apparently he’s also patron of fishermen, fishmongers and ropemakers. 
kisses
Skin against skin, we lie;
breathing each other’s breath
we slowly suffocate.
don't confuse the narrator 