My mornings are filled with boreal woods,
teeming with green boughs,
trunks matchstick thin, packed dense,
sheltering damp, mossy forest floors.
The earth beneath each step at dawn is soft,
absorbing and forgiving of my trespassing
through its mysterious and magical space.
Mushrooms in unreal shapes and sizes and colors
are the reality of every glance.
Orange and red with white spots, like fawns hiding in the underbrush
growing, maturing, decaying, the full cycle of life
in every stage is accessible from every viewpoint.
My afternoons are packed thick with vibrancy,
red and green and silver bodies shimmer and splash in dark waters.
Salmon swim upstream, color scattered streaks in the creek
like a jewel thieves dark velvet purse laid open;
emeralds and rubies sparkling in the light.
Crimson vitality pumps through the shallow, raging waters,
exposed arteries pumping life through the landscape.
Blueberries litter the ground, golden salmonberries glisten in the evening sunset.
Dark crowberries grow with reckless abandon and run wild: a rampage of growth.
“Do you hear that, Betty?”
She tilts her head. No.