Evening spreads out
into every crevice
of the spring river.

Vulnerable days
among the rocks and water,
the warming spring grass.

Birds migrating in,
different songs in each tree
and both my dog’s ears.

Every bird singing,
the river flush with spring rain,
we know we’re lucky.

This light isn’t mine
coming through the bright young trees,
but I’m part of it.

Family of nine,
goslings learning about life,
fording the river.

The choice is just this:
it’s only to love this place,
sky in the river.

For now, I belong,
walking along this river,
breaking and moving.

I breathe on this earth,
decades next to this river,
I am weight, weight, weight.

Spear thistle wakes up
at the base of a tree stump
as birds sing to sun.

Spring sun on our heads,
wild moss at the riverbank,
mystery, it all.

The river is life,
the sun sets in its swirling—
it swallows it whole.

Killdeer here calling
as dusk comes at the river,
trees regard us well.

Leaving the day here,
we walk off into the night,
free Robins singing.

Silver seedpods twist
open and float like stopped boats,
seeds sail on the wind.

Lichen under moss
growing for thousands of years
here by the river.

Tender to tender—
we walked today in the cold,
now dreaming of it.

The river cuts through
the land, me — what’s forgotten
in that cold current.

The first day of spring,
we’re lucky to walk this path—
every bird singing.