Went to the river looking for a poem
I found my familiar trail
Winding woods that hug the bank
Whatcom Creek in August
Bushes high and
Full of berries,
Birds and spiders webs.
Grass sways underwater
Moving in sync with the river
Is this what peace looks like,
Melted into movement?
Tree branch dips over the drink
Desiring more of plenty
Is water from the root not good enough?
Do you cool your leaves in the noon sun?
Down by the edge there’s a place to sit
Two dead trees have slumped across
I dip a stick into the stream
Like pen into ink
To write my name on the sun bleached wood.
The sun grabs my letters
Throws them in the air
Birds ride the upward current
Did I just disappear?