by Cynthia McCain
Walking up the trail
at the road’s end
past the part where the grouse drums
and up the hill with the deer prints
til you get to the open sun.
In the meadow where the new shrubs got burned off there are larkspur and cinquefoil
and the very first calochortus came out last week.
Last month we heard a flock of geese, watched them fly straight overhead
but the sound bounced off the valleys and you’d think
they were below us.
Other years, the old logging road was covered with
but I haven’t seen them for the last decade, I’m guessing.
The calendar of these plants has become my calendar
The seasons of these trees have become my seasons
The destination of these geese, my destination.
*This beautiful poem was published in the poetry journal, Heart.