I tried to shake off the storm clouds that had been following me.
It was into the woods, like Thoreau, but there was no cabin,
only our packs and a tent.
As I stepped into the creek, still waters pooled at my ankles,
then tugged at my feet before flowing downhill. Spring’s raging
snowmelt had already moved on, and August thundershowers
were yet to come. We pitched our tent alongside the stream
to hear the water’s melodic song striking the rounded rocks.
Gravity was the great engineer of the song,
pulling all downward, home to a sea
I can barely imagine now, apart from the vastness of clouds.