I have come to live here,

neighbor with skunk and bear,

mountains with discerning faces.

I walk an old deer trail

go inward-

deeper

among the trees,

where sunlight eavesdrops

in streams of light

and pine needles harbor

dark knowledge.

Long live these weeds,

the thorn and the burr,

these mountain strawberries.

There is something good

about this clear, sharp air,

the glitter of basalt and mica,

the sheen of crows.

I hold myself steady in the wind

wonder where to go from here,

listen for the quiet

under leaves.