White Rocks Cliff

leftover raindrops
falling from boughs
of hemlock and beech
          the roar of the stream
the water cycle
          - a few of its faces

a massive white pine
older than old
rises straight as an arrow
          how many travelers
have marveled at the sight
          of this ancient one?


after climbing over wet rocks
i came to a flat spot
where i drank from
          the bottle in my pack
and watched mist drift by
          - a few faces forgotten before


at the junction
of the long trail
that stretches border-to-border
          i met a group of four
weary-looking travelers
          they seemed surprised to see me


walking through
a gate of birches
i saw too many scratches
          on their smooth paper skin
why feel the need
          to leave oneself behind?


i stopped to eat
my apple along the way
when i am hungry
          i eat
when i am tired
          i sleep


climbing steadily for a while
looking at shelf fungus
the woods opening up
          i thought i heard voices
on two occasions
          perhaps it was the trees


nearing the top
pushing through red spruce
i stopped to write
          leaning my staff against a tree
i crushed a moth
          which fell to the ground


picking it gently up
to say i was sorry
i was happy to see
          its wings flutter
as it flew a short distance
          - now the cold will get it


a shrine of smooth stones
stacked atop each other
and in the branches of trees
          as though spirits were here
i chose not to add
          mine to a pile


at the summit 
of white rocks cliff
ragged clouds above
          valley below touched with fire
of changing leaves
          nothing  but cold wind between


and on the way back down
hiking quickly along
cold, hungry, and tired
          i kept forgetting
to embrace the forest
          that was embracing me