Remember that day,
the river drifting slowly south,
the trees just beginning to leaf,
looking like paler versions of their autumn selves?
You know how you have to
climb the earthen steps,
first down to the silver river,
then up to the leafy overlook,
and how, this time of year,
every miniscule blossom challenges
you to name it,
how the nose twitches at the smell of
disturbed leaf mulch
and damp earth,
how what passes for silence
is filled with bird song?
It was just that kind of day today,
a day of discovery,
of feeling the cool hand
of the sky on my cheek,
of seeing hillsides white with trillium,
and rock gardens jumbled among the trees.
It was as if the trees were listening,
and the quiet leaves,
and the ears of the rocks were open,
and the twigs bent close to hear.
Then the wind spoke,
and the bluebird.
Into the silence came a breeze-borne song.
The boughs nodded,
the river chuckled to itself,
the rocks sighed and settled into
the earth's cupped hand.