Here, yellow birch is king. Among them hemlock
and spruce, hung with mosses, lichen-lined bark
scrubbed by mountain ice and snowstorms, winds
that ravage, leaving the bleak vacuums of blowdowns.
There is an air of mystery and gloom in the ancient
forest, on the mountainside, along the rock and
boulder-strewn brook. Its voice rising and
diminishing, edging from a pounding basso profundo
to a light, fairy-tinkle as the clear, cold mountain
melt-water races downhill, spouting generous spray,
creating the atmosphere, damp and boggy-rich
with aeons of nutrients hosting bright green lacy
bracken, dogwood, wood sorrel, delicately lovely
orchids and lilies. Robins and Northern thrushes
embroider the air with their sweet, piercing calls.
Shafts of sunlight blaze from a cloud-gathering sky
observed through the forest canopy upon the remnants
of a shattered white birch on the forest floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment