On a mild winter morning—
I return to the creek retreating from
mounds of wet sand. Having had a
wash, the rocks are happy in their
coats of lichen, and the plants are
also eager to speak.

It's the time of day when one can find
old Sam Coleridge, looking no worse
for last night's dream. Deep in
thought, he touches an ear, signing
me to send him a poem. He's on my
email list.