It’s not that pine trees,

Have a lot to hide,

They just don’t have much,

To show.

Standing solid,

Solemn,

Stable,

Their needles as green,

As they ever were.

Crows, for being draped in black,

Are not very stealthy,

Rather garrulous,

Cawing in threes,

Bobbing, posturing,

Perched in the trees.

The rusted-out fire pit,

Doesn’t do very much,

In the day,

Besides,

Retain,

Past rain.

I’m sitting on the old bench,

That’s been here,

Since before I was,

Thinking about how,

The more things change,

The more they stay the same.