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