past towering pines along a ridge trail,
peopled by spring grasses and flowering
yellow Arrowleaf Balsamroot,
its leaves, roots, and stems once infused
into a steaming tea to ward off colds or fever
by the Blackfoot, Salish and Cheyenne.
We stroll under late spring sun along this meandering trail;
the woods quiet, these hills innocent of snow,
all memories of winter crunching under our feet,
the sweet smell of pines and mossy,
volcanic boulders around us
unaffected by the round of seasons.
For this moment, we listen
for the chatter of chickadees,
that signal we have negotiated winter
|Dishman Hills, April 2015 (Camp)|
It snowed today, reminding me of a walk in nearby Dishman Hills last spring, far from winter snow and today's flurries.