In my life, I always return
to hear this song
play over and over.
floating through tall cedars,
a trill of a piccolo among Douglas firs,
muffled drumbeats of boots on soft hemlock cones,
the creak of my pack and
a rustling on the underside of my existence.
out of the forest
and onto the green sward of meadows
Seurat would have died for this,
the land readymade pointillist
with lupine, pasqueflowers, and lilies
against a cerulean sky.
And floating off the mountain,
above the glaciers,
the strong, clear notes of an alto sax.