I hear the roaring rapids
splashing up their spray. And the pine
needles waltzing in the hay, as I
shuffle my feet along the path. A drop

of dew is the morning bath
to the black, cloaked ant. The grey squirrels
can’t sit still. Running, climbing
and chasing on fours. Nature, my friend

is never a bore! Golden, crimson
marmalade of shade are the trees in
autumn. Ferns are the fans for the dwellers
of earth’s bottom. A butterfly circles

a shy violet, as a robin plays pilot
in the clouds. The crowds of scurrying
chipmunks dash into the crevice of
a stone fence.

And I lose my sense of place
as I’m face to face with a doe, lowering
her spotted head at my toes.