We belong out here, me and my wife,
her sister and husband, along the river
among hurricane pines, snapped saplings
that grow stronger and taller than oaks,
strong hemlocks halving the sunlight,
stone farmhouse cellars, dewdrop mushrooms,
profuse ferns, and a big pile of sticky shredded cones
chipmunks must have visited many times.
Our energy returns after weeks in the office
or in the house,
just a few hours outdoors
and we breathe like water, earth and tawny grasses.
Our eyes lift up into the sky, our bodies crack
like the grey boulders, our thoughts find moisture
and befriend the little worlds they find themselves in,
the dark under a stone, water trickling over moss,
the sweet smell of a blanket of needles.
We head for home, a little more wild,
bubbling.
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