The old man put aside his sadness
to listen to the stories of the stones
who told him of the joy
below dark green water,
of how trees feared earthquakes,
of the tiny ant that bit his grandson,
and to write her story
as if it mattered…
Because only two rivers meet
and creeks are a mile apart
in Oregon they call it Dry Ridge
and up from where the rivers join
the incline soaking his shirt,
switchback after switchback
to the looks far point
where big trees stand,
then across the cold north face
rocks slippery and unsure
to Grouse Creek tumbling free
water turned white
through the true green forest,
singing her song alone
down the steep incline
of her cloistered hideaway.
He spoke to the trees, to the boulders,
to the flowing water and brilliant moss
thanking them again and again,
saying goodbye as if it were the last time,
each step back picking up stones
until with all his weight re-gathered
he returned to streetlights
and behind them faintly visible stars.
