During the spring rains,
Between showers,
I risk a walk to the river,
Past the decaying log pile,
On a copper carpet
Of pine needles,
Down the hill and between
Two large Eastern white pines,
One living, one dead.
I walk quickly, knowing
I risk a soaking.
I step on rocks carefully
Placed in the creek
For just such hurried steps as mine.
Over the rise into the hemlocks,
The audible rush of the river
Is distinct now.
At its bank I watch for fish behind boulders
But don’t linger, fearing the next
Sheaf of rain.
Back through the living and the dead pines,
Up the hill quickly, heart beating, lungs suck air,
Back to the solidity of our rock ledge
And the shelter of our little house on the hill.