BY A BROOK IN MARCH
Our micro-spiked boots crunch
On the icy trampled-down snow
As we scramble over the drift
Thrown up by the highway plow.
We’re next to the Wonalancet
Brook which feeds the Swift.
Today it’s flowing handsomely,
So close to the coming of spring,
Around and between its rocks
And logs, all whitely domed,
All smoothly frosted, silent
Except where it chatters on shoals,
Intent on its seaward journey.
In the forest beside us loom,
Caped in regal white furs,
Majestic glacial erratics.
There beside the trail
We see the blurred old traces
Of hoof or paw or claw
Leading down to the lapping water.
We pass an ancient tree trunk
Riddled with woodpecker drills.
We’re approached by a feisty red squirrel
Who blithely bounces onward.
At the bridge we make our turn
And retrace our steps to the car.
Leave a Reply