Wild preserve between
the straight seams of city streets. Plants creep down to the creek's
banks, with-drawing its assets. Enthroned on a rock, a man breathes
the "lapis-haunted air," jotting notes in red
ink. On the opposite shore, a pale
woman bathes her feet, water caressing their ten small white
trees don't look down.
Rapiers circle without interest.
Deep into their own visions,
mushrooms don't seem to notice.
Almost hidden by the side of
the trail, an Elder sat under a tree. "I saw two Blue Herons
the other day, and a Peregrine Falcon. I thought it was a hawk, but
falcon!" he said. "A few months ago," I replied, "an
owl was hunting in broad daylight." "Yeah. I saw him too,
sitting on a branch pruning himself like he owned the place." "He
was almost invisible," I continued. "People were standing around
pointing him out. Then he glided upstream, so silent.
I haven't seen him since." "Me neither. Well, it's time
to get these old bones moving," and he began to
ascend the hilly trail.