You Know Dylan, Right?

You are the black sneakers and Persagel.
You are the shaggy wool of the yak
And the smell of the new cut grass.
You are a winter storm coming
And the chipmunk running for cover.

However, you are not the brass
Elephant candle holder
Or the rolled carpet or
The Degas posed figurine.

It is possible you are the telescope at
The window,
Maybe even the lone falcon
Perched on a high branch
But you are not even close to
Being sunlight reflected on the windshield.

And a quick look in the
Aluminum toaster will show
That you are neither the
Tarragon growing on the deck
Nor the bike with the flat tires
In the basement.

You might enjoy knowing that
I am the sound of an LP falling
Onto a turntable.
I also happen to be the dance
In the leaves of the lilac,
And the smell of bread rising and
The flat tire on the bike in the basement.

I am the curved knick on the
Cherry tabletop and the sound of
The dog lapping his water.

but I am not winter coming
And the lone falcon. You are still
Winter coming and the lone falcon.
You will always be winter coming
And the lone falcon,
Not to mention the pine needles
crunched under the hunter’s boot
And somehow the barometer.