Small Day On A Path

 

Underfoot, one eggshell unseen snaps in thin shreds.

Quick crunch of bird embryo muted by mud, dream

membrane on its last spindly legs.

 

Smooth boot sole slick viscous stuff caking

path of burnt sienna dirt. Strange path of

leafy insistence pulls you on.

 

You sit queasy on cold boulders, think towards

next steps, breathing Douglas Fir fully –cleanly

into your soft belly, you tie leather laces tight,

scrape bark with your strong hand just to touch

 

these trees and wonder where is the waterfall

father often told splashing our bedtime stories?

Soon you hope to smell ferns sprouting filaments

of green from wet stone like lover’s wine drenched

lips. You quietly roam, clamber easy.

 

Volcanic rocks make a towering cliff ahead, your muscled

fingers excitedly find cracks in black basalt to scramble

high into sky’s fire as your mind bleeds pleasing streams

 

of contentment. The day beautiful and blue like an egg

of gladness, like a small persistent sparrow.