On my path to the river a steady patter of drizzle gathers in a puddle this morning.
Blackberry vines crawl toward the center of the trail aching for sunlight.
Scattered throughout the forest deer tip toe through burnt stumps nibbling on new greens.

Rhododendrons, lady slipper orchids
wear dew drops like pearls that slide down their petals.

Circling above a cedar, a hawk hunts. She patrols the valley.
Her caw-caw echoes through the timbered carpet of hills.
It will be months before hard green berries will ripen.
Before dragonflies and quail will dart across mountain meadows. I doubt they are yet larva and embryos.
For now, a cool current flows over a fallen tree that spans the stream. My shoe breaks the clear surface.
Disturber of the peace, a crawdad slips back under a rock.

Overhead, limbs touch each other shading the riverbank. Air is crisp, moss is damp.
In the roaring rapids
a few salmon circle. They ride the eddies.
A journey home she’s full of eggs; and promise. Hope spawns.
In time, some will return to these very pebbles. Not all, but some.
Hiking up the spur, the smallest breeze whirrs around my arms and under my nose.
Looking to the side, a raft of wild turkeys sneak off stage scratching and gobbling into the woodland.

Caw-caw cries the hawk high above.
“Hurry is not important here. Our currency is the ages.”

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