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.
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.
We’re on opposite sides of the stream now,
the hound and I, looking at the other
across lazy rapids—a bifurcation
And who’s to say
which side is which?
Went into the forest with a hound
on a sunny fall day.