I sat beside the lake  
and noticed  
the natter of juncos  
the lap of water  
	the brush of pine needles.  
   
I walked between the trees  
and inhaled  
the evergreen air  
the ash from afar  
	the mountain breeze.  
   
I climbed the steep trail  
and admired  
the quiet peace  
the twisted roots  
the mosses and  
	liverworts.  
   
I think back through the years and  
imagine those before me  
who sat beside the lake, and  
walked between the trees, and  
	climbed the same steep trail.  
  
I marvel at the changes and  
the fine grains of sifting sands,  
the moments that arise,
quickly, only to perish
	once again.

I saw a Sora stepping through the grass  
seeming somewhat tipsy,  
  and tripping over twigs.  
  
Toes tangled in the reeds,  
head nodding with each stride,  
  forward, backward, side-to-side.  
…

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On the edge of winter at the drop of dusk,
Wapiti bows his head, his antlers catch the wind.
Like scaffolds made of bone, they steady his stance
     against the graupel gust.
  
Wapiti finds refuge …

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