Dry Ridge Trail

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.
Up from where the rivers join
the incline soaked 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, 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 he picked up stones
until with all his weight re-gathered
he returned to streetlights,
and behind them faintly visible stars.