Nighthawk at the beach
hidden in the scrubby trees,
singing to last light.

The small spot we fished—
this is how I picture it,
glittering, hopeful.

Creeping buttercup
stitched with things not to forget,
the source of it all.

Yellow chanterelles,
simple as a century,
on this unwalked path.

Evening spreads out
into every crevice
of the spring river.

Vulnerable days
among the rocks and water,
the warming spring grass.

A garland left here,
made of bright dandelions
in the May forest.

Birds migrating in,
different songs in each tree
and both my dog’s ears.

Every bird singing,
the river flush with spring rain,
we know we’re lucky.

Tiny in the trees,
warbler and oriole song
fills the evening sky.

Creeping buttercup
up and out of the cold earth,
rests on a sunned rock.

This light isn’t mine
coming through the bright young trees,
but I’m part of it.

From oblivion
come the broke open seedhusks
on dark forest floors.

Its own universe,
green lichen glows on a rock.
unlike a named thing.

It comes in quiet,
greening from April to May,
the thicket fills in.

Family of nine,
goslings learning about life,
fording the river.

The woods goes about
its business of loveliness
regardless of us.

My dog chose this path,
with surprise mushrooms growing
in a hollow tree.

It starts to set in,
spring winds trying to blow in,
the fleeting blue skies.

The choice is just this:
it’s only to love this place,
sky in the river.