Warm melancholy,

still and quiet.
To ease my ennui I go outside
and walk, hands in my pockets,
on one of my old rock lined paths
through the mesquite.
The trees and mountains and sky beyond
do not ponder as people do.
I pick up a stone from the path.
I spit on it and
wipe it with my thumb.
Small and thin and flecked with green
it seems profound.