Time's Stream

Went into the forest with a hound,
along an autumn stream
made of equal parts
—time and water--
in a hemlock-lined ravine that eons struggled
wondrously to carve from these tall hills.
In a place where past and future hold no meaning.
In this place where even the present holds no sway,
unakin to this singular oneness.
 

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There, imprinted in mud, tracks of a ringtail,
searching the night before for shiners and crayfish.
Here, etched in stone, the randomness of erosion,
or the fossilized remains of a barefoot woman,
who'd walked this stream sometime in a distant future?

The latter, one would think . . .
For she’s here, her voice
carried in the creek’s gurgle and pop,
in an undecipherable language
that each-everyone understands.
 

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We’re on opposite sides of the stream now,
the hound and I, looking at the other
across lazy rapids—a bifurcation
of sanity
and not-so-much.
And who’s to say
which side is which?

Went into the forest with a hound
—timewalkers, we--
on a sunny fall day.

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