Laura Foley

The Summer-Lessened Stream

I sit on a stone by a summer-lessened stream of less water and more exposed boulders, totems of mid-summer stones

gentled by moss and springing ferns, a shady spot relieving morning heat as I read the world is burning,

but not here, not yet, by this stream-pool’s shade-cooled water, enough for a water strider to cast its shadow

on sparkling, submerged banded schist skating through the dark space made by a human form over it,

a forest as open to me as to this little skimmer, to whom I whisper

my only wisdom is: to sit and attend the variations of a stream, its strings, oboes and a flute,

a thrush’s notes descending downward to me, through hemlock’s darkness,

where I forget for these moments my eventual burning; in no hurry, my dog and I

have stepped off the path, to sit beside a stream that knows sunlight reflected on a mossy stone,

and ferns that sway as if there is a breeze in some brief unseen spirit’s breath I don’t feel on the cheek, I turn

to being stream and channel not staying, or going. Flowing.