Enfolded in Blue Ridge Mountains,

I sit and watch

puffs of soft clouds

smoothing ridges

 

of ancient greenstone worn down by

millions of years.

Pink and purple

crown vetch spills down

 

steep hillsides while goldfinches bounce

from bloom to bloom

and hawks get a

free ride on the

 

currents hidden to human eye.

A nature hike

bares dew shining

on jewelweed,

 

tiny striped Wintergreen, remnants

of the chestnut,

once matriarch,

erased by blight,

 

shards of quartz pushed up by spring thaw,

left by natives

camped by creek side

when land belonged

 

to no one, was shared with creatures

who, with the earth,

provided warmth,

food, shelter, tools.

 

The earthy smell of birth and death

— strong, rich, ancient —

is missed by those

hurrying past.

 

I close my eyes, hear a symphony

of sounds, unmarred

by human din,

pulse of the earth.

 

The Blue Ridge beckons and I heed her call.