I hold fast to my walking
stick as I leave
the beaten path to follow
my own trail
Into only partially familiar woods.
There is a part of me that
Here, within the gloom of autumn
or later, the promise of spring
Tilt back my head
Shake my mane and
Sniff the air.
I crouch beside the creek flowing here, simple and without a care.
A glimpse of a whitetail yearling
Frozen in the tangled underbrush
The soft call the cardinal sings to his mate
The reflection of us all in the stream
In this late November dawn
One thought on “A Longing for Thoreau”
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