It’s worth the steepness, ice and slush, and muck
to reach the flattened brow where ground is dry.
I love the trail between bald boulders, hard
packed dirt, and acorn shells. Yes, love. That word
for sudden uptick of a sun-baked breeze,
the shift from closeup mountain laurel leaves
to the expanse of sky woodpeckers tap.
Nothing about this mood is logical.
I suppose that makes it my religion
except I don’t believe. I only feel
connection with this habitat, and not
with any definition of a god.
I read the lichen patterns on oak bark
without pretending I know what they mean.
published in Turtle Island Quarterly
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