By You

among the rocks at Lewis Falls, a rhododendron hangs from a crag;

the changing signature of the stream turns from timber to laurel

branches; I am no less with this oak than I am with the quick shadow

of a crow across my legs, or these leaf patterns of shade; no less with

the glad aura of ailanthus than the sturdy joy of pine, the sparrow

that holds sight of me or the purpose of its gaze; no more surprised by

two hikers and their German salutations, my English muffled by the thickness

of forest and the falls, than I am surprised by the crow’s caw,

the spondees of a woodpecker drilling a distant tree; no more alone

with the urgent cadence of water against stone than alone with its stillness

spread out along the shore, among the rocks at Lewis Falls.