Up along the ridge,
rising like the guard hairs on the back
of a sleeping sentient dog
stand the blackened bones against the setting sun.
Underneath the forest, that has
not forgotten the fire, is childlike again;
free and open with its searching.
the lake remembers,
but not in the way the forest does
or the way we might,
its reflective past a mystery
swallowed with the dip of the
sun behind the ridge.
We fish under the growing clouds
We feel the pull of our lines
on our hearts.
Our tent waits in silence.
Our story waits to speak.
Change is a lightning strike.
What if we could all be a difference that followed,
loud as the rolling thunder,
beautiful as the last beams of the sleeping sun,
exciting as the triple dip in the rod tip?
©Timothy James Stouffer #elystreetpoet
06182021 All rights reserved.