By midwinter the once tame creek is a narrow river dredging ever deeper

raising steep hillsides on both sides   covered with foliage shallowly rooted.

Sasquatch clambers down to where the torrent's chant is too ancient to decipher.
Here the glistening backs of leaves are crepuscular as those archetypal
configurations of immediate, seemingly remembered recognition, whereby
we order and give general echo to our individual and inward existence,
are related to, are a modulation from, the unspoken dream of
a Black Madonna with long cellulose fingers;
no, antlers with drops of water (tears?)
suspended on their tips.