sitting beside the Youghiogheny River,
i listened to the sound of its waters,
watched a wolf spider,
and caught a glimpse of a dipping hawk–
what did the Algonguin
tribes see when they came here?
what did they feel when they looked into
the sky and over the mountains?
what did they know when they sat on the
rocks and scanned the horizon for sunning snakes?
we think we might know, but really,
we will never know
i walked along the river
soaking in the calm and quiet summer evening–
how many shades of green could i see?
was that a finch calling out?
what kind of fish were jumping out of the water?
tonight there will be lightning bugs on the grass,
and i will catch a couple in my hand
and then set them free–
where are the lightning bugs during winter?
where herons hide
daybreak in the fog from my balcony
The fog on the water, blankets my soul and lifts my spirit with the gentleness of a calm, warm morning.
I watched a hawk catch a small fish from the lake. His perfect form, the envy of witnessing geese, and clumsy dogs and noisy seagulls. Were the other fish mystified by the sudden disappearance of their friend? Did they swim quickly away in fright and apprehension, having their lives pass before their cloudy, bulging eyes?
I will meet you there, in a dream forest of jade and obsidian alcoves, in the dawning dusk at the platform by the stilled waters. I will meet you in a hushed whisper and a silent embrace. And I will pretend the soft breeze is your mighty hand caressing tired shoulders and blowing my hair and my fear away from my aging face.
The lake water rolls toward the old docks,
an unseen force urging it home.
The storm approaches and we retreat.
I keep the windows open until the rain soaks the cabin floor.
An afternoon of smudged and foggy horizons bleeding
into the water, seeping into my soul.
Vessels that carry cargo, staying afloat despite their rust and advancing age. Bobbing and rolling in the soft waves, pulsing to an intrinsic rhythm. Sometimes stilled, at the edge of deep waters.
spanishwoods 