Will we see it all?

Before the changes of leaves,

Become too heavy?

The brightest spectrum,

Soaring above the vortex,

Is an urgent signal.

Is there a message,

Of solitude yet to come,

In this final leaf?

Little vestiges,

Of sweet summer weightlessness,

Cling to cold branches.

Where dormant beavers,

Dare not to stir still waters,

For chance of sightings.

Two ageless tree stumps,

Standing in the stiff fall wind,

are tersely silent.

In a bold, brash coup,

Burning autumn leaves defy,

Blue October skies.

And the river flows,

Never in acknowledgement,

Of a single day.

Ah – crisp waters sigh,

In an introspective way,

In a single note.

The sharpest color,

Is a cool crystal azure,

In a hidden pool.

Perfect, soft and smooth –

Hands playing in tall grasses,

Never to need rest.

Far off the trail.

We peered beyond the marshes,

At a secret lake.

Such brilliance beheld,

At the edge of the clearing,

Fishing poles aside.

Then we were crossing,

That spiny twenty-foot dam,

Mud to our ankles.

Broadcasting ripples,

To a far away neighbor,

The forgotten log.

Bitter ruby leaves,

Pungeant like ripe cranberries,

Escort the bright stream.

But not to forget,

What the pond must have been like,

Before we were here.

The dam challenges,

Any fearing intruder,

Who wants to stay dry.

And the logging ops,

Smooth out the windy ripples,

In a little cove.

More spectacular,

More alive or energized,

Than any canvas.

And unexpected,

The pool below Kineo,

And the high waters.

There, the Mountaineer,

Standing as a true equal,

To power beyond.

Just two old friends then,

Finding peace and forgiveness,

In the wilderness.