Today we walked the river--
Low still from the cold--
Unchanged by the slow melt,
And the trail half-snow, half-wet gravel--
Conditions we know well,
Having walked-in so many "new seasons"
Together.

There were animal signs,
(Most domestic)
But of course there was moose--
Black hair melting out in rotting snow,
The familiar hoofed tracks,
Droppings without "squishies"
Of various sizes,
And the entire trail well-browsed--
Especially the dogwoods
(Perhaps moose too know the secret
Of potent knick nick).

And obviously we botanized,
That mental compulsion
That accompanies us everywhere,
(Like the old songs)
'Tis the "season of the rising sap,"
Bright yellow introduced willows,
Mauve-beige sandbar willows,
Dogwoods and roses deliciously purplish-red;
Few sprouts,
Some swelling buds,
No catkins.

It took about forty minutes to walk the two miles,
I yellowed the snow at the turnaround point
(Another ageless tradition),
And aligned my tracks in the
Undisturbed snow beneath some Douglas Fir--

And thought of camp--

And thought of the fields--

And wondered if you were thinking, too.

03/22/2008

Author's Note: Logan Canyon, for D.

Posted on 03/23/2008
Copyright © 2024 Leonard M Hawkes