Salmon gurgle between
moss and boulder
on the banks of the Skagit.
The braided creek
bridged by hemlock limbs
and banded hands will hold our weight.
Late Autumn trails are windblown
and the blazes
on the vine maples fade.
My boys' feet fern the forest, pinnate
tracks sweep
across every flat space.
There’s nothing new to say
about beauty,
just receive its liturgy.
Sun-splintered clouds gather
and snowy crags glare
over Diablo Lake.
But we’re gloved in fir and spruce,
whitetails leaping
knolls of kinnikinnick.