The forest floor crackles,
catching dribbles from above.
A breeze shifts, fresh spray
showers the twigs and dried leaves.
I can smell that rain and those damp,
quieting mornings, cool moss under my feet.
The blue jay’s harsh, long cawk,
intrusive. Why did they not swoop down on us?
The breeze builds through high branches,
far overhead, swirling in a crisscross,
picking up the roar from the lake. Closing
your eyes, you cannot separate waves
capsizing from branches wrenching overhead.
They groan. As you stand motionless, each
blade of grass still, random drips
from low growth, a soft damp, the trees
swoop around you in a kind of inversion,
where you effuse the sacred silence
and the cathedral rushes with
all disheveled wildness, wonder.