ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
3/1/98
the sunday walk a path
well trod it is my legs
that made it my stubborn
way of living in the same line
that is drawn out through the woods
creek crossings hard steps
up the hill the earth gives off
a sweet smell like spring
crocus out snowdrops pout on
neck-like stems but trees wait
they wait barely budded
a fine patience to know the season
walking in the creek bottom
a noise from up high
familiar what memory stirs
peering through the feathery sticks
of treetops at the western clouds
the sound comes on what
do I hear I strain to see
then way over the nearest hill
the cranes come clacking
they do not pause they swing north
I wave they do not flatter me
with noticing they travel far
long necks legs wings fly
me admiring the unfaltering journey