Together we parse the woodland trail
Past stands of ancient evergreens
Through patches of ice-melt mud,
Bearing right at the fork.
A quickened pace across the creek,
Then up the sandy rise
To Spring Pond.
A fallen pine rests on its side,
An empty cabin slumps.
Geese bleat over still water.
Blue blazed trees lead us to
An open yellow meadow,
The etched path arcs through
Last summer’s grassy remnants.
A sudden shrill drumming
Sounds in the forest.
Silence ensues;
We wait and listen.
Drumming cracks the air again,
Echoes through our amphitheater,
This hallowed forest glen.
Copyright 2012 © Brian T. Maurer
"Spring Pond" 2012 © Brian T. Maurer
