Beyond the back deck
of the house we are renting
about fifty yards through
the late winter trees
my son run back and forth in
a small clearing.

I can't hear him, but I know
he's talking to himself
and imagining some intricate story
finding monsters and treasures
and adventures
and living in a way no one else sees.

Sometimes his pace slows or stops
and I see him still,
alone in his world;
and sometimes he's behind
an old, thick tree
and I can't see him at all
alone in the world.

Later in the summer,
the leaves will be full
and the woods will be darker
even in the sunlight
and I wont see him at all.
Or at least as much.

Later still, he might not play
in the trees
by himself.

Or the trees might be
cut down, where they won't
block my view
where they won't hold him
or they might grow thick like a wall.