The Drupe

This idyllic trail through the woods
along the river has been scene
to many a thoughtful hour, befitting
the reveries of Rousseau;

    my secrets, my desires, my scorn–
    these woods know them all–a silent
    partner to my pontification.

The river flows slowly – as leisurely as
my walk – neither I nor the water has anywhere to be, but the river always listening, carries my worry to the sea;

     in late fall before first frost, but after
     the rains begin, no one else haunts
     these woods but me.

Slogging down the trail the sucking
sound of mud at my heels, the wet
underbrush grown back – salal slaps
my legs as I pass;

       It is quiet and still but for the sound
       of raindrops, the squirrels and deer
       are absent, the regular repartee of
       birds fall silent.

The trail widens where the walnut
trees grow and undergrowth disappears,
I pick up a drupe and absentmindedly
fondle the husk while I meander,
picking it as I amble in the gentle
rain;

        my thoughts escape my mind
        to stain my fingers a brownish yellow
        that will not wash out for a week,
        reminding me where I have been.