A cool poem I identify with.

Lost Creek Campground, Wheelchair Accessible Trails
by Melanie Green, July 2001.

I.

Beavers have built this smooth water.
Grasses edge the pond. Wide blades
arc, enter the water -- reflection,
a circle. Lingering beyond the grasses,
alder and cascara. Thin trunks, exuberant
leaves.

Water-striders dash their shadows across
the silty bottom. Dragonfly, a finger
of blue light, comes to rest on the mud
shore. Wings repeat the sun, the silence.
Raven's cry rattles the throat of sky
overhead. Dismantled to stillness, I am
no other place.

II.

It's the spaces
between
the immense trunks
of mountain hemlock
that I've missed.

The forest-weaving
of light, shadow, green.
The scent of needles.
What I loved
and lost, --
returned.

Nature writing, description of May 3rd.

Beltaine and the weekend are ringed in fog, the memories soft and sleepy; then again, perhaps that's a reflection of how I feel at the moment. >;-)

Saturday was bright, the blue sky dotted with herds of clouds. Gusts of warm wind whipped the dry earth, the water, the grasses, the trees and us fiercely. As we rounded the first lake a great blue heron skimmed the surface. We watched it for a moment before pressing on. A mass of small white butterflies darted beside the trail, supping on the dandelions in bloom.
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