Poem

Falling Water


It is messy on the trail: the tree slops off its base
like a broken jaw as if it were cut down
in frustration, by inexperience. The humidity
in the air gives the wood an eerie glow.
Redwood splintered into teeth.
It’s not raining yet, but everything
About this place heralds its coming;
The dampness in the air, chewed up paper
In the mouth, soft dirt that bogs between toes.
Further on, the trail leads to an overlook that opens
To the tail end of the Applachians and the cradled valley.
The tranquility of the forest crescendos
Into birdsong, a cacophony of different chirps
And caws that echoes off the cliff face.
The nearby stream sings of the white laurels,
And lilac that linger behind me as my legs dangle
Off the cliffside like a child’s. And I sit
And I write of the rain that does not come,
And I transcribe the indeterminable birdsong,
Waiting for the woods to give something back.
“Let me stop you there,” she says, quietly,
From somewhere far away and delicate,
And then it started raining, mercifully.