Loitering in the Forest

Hemlock and oak, pine
and yellow birch predominate,
their seedlings and saplings
stippling the rich loam
of the forest floor. The
understory of ferns and
dogwood suffuse the density
of the mountain trail with a
vibrant clamour of
green, dark and light and
shades between as sun rays
penetrate the needles and foliage
to kiss the eager floral heads
of lilies of the valley, their tiny
cream bells luminous with presence
among towering pink-lanterned
Ladies Slippers, sorrel and white,
starry bunchberries abloom.
Down the mountain slopes
streams roister over rockfalls
littering the brooks' raceway
toward the river below. And
we, ambling along the 
cindered, damp trails
alongside the mountain stream,
its thunderous tumbling over
rocks hurled from far above,
move so slowly in constant
discovery, we are loitering 
in the forest, watching the foaming
water, its glitter washing the stone,
spray creating a faintly elusive
rainbow to tease the hover flies
as swallowtails lazily drift
from trees to bracken,
the atmosphere reposed in a
singular brash tranquility of presence;
the cycle, motion of life renewed.