Another Sunday's hike

It's hard to believe it's the 4th of December. It was a beautiful day for a walk in the park. This poem was from a much colder day. Even on the coldest days msk is drawn to play in the stream. He's taught me to be quiet and patient and to be in the moment - not rushing him to finish playing or bugging him about how he might lose his shoes if he lets them float downstream. The joy of having a pair of shoes that double as boats in a current.

Late November Hike

Clear water - high, swift flowing,

A splash like a knife, cruel and cutting

At this late fall, early winter juncture

The park’s soul is cold and spare – in hiding

Beyond hidden - transparent

Revealing skeletal trees, cold grey rocks

Visitors all too visible,

While residents have disappeared

No fish in the familiar eddy,

No sounds of birds or insects

Current's rush, wind through branches

Mask any subtle sounds

Final clinging leaves surrender –

Fluttering down to ride flows

Into rock jam clogs or 

Captured in swirling vortexes.

Nature’s seclusion is lost

As exposed hikers wander naked paths

Barely audible, his soliloquy warms me

I hunker down with my dog and wait

Until chill water, raw wind push the boy home

Then rushing to keep up, the return path.

Comfortably sitting in a warm, cluttered home,

Longing for the bleak simplicity of the frigid stream