This terraced forest 
where moisture still 
rises to the surface.
A saturation of cattails
and doe tracks
near a trail on the hill 
above our home.
 
The rusty iron pipe pours 
a noisy liquid silver strand 
onto some slickened bricks,
while a single thick
porcelain mug hangs
on a hook above the loose 
stacked stones.
 
Cold water in the mug 
is a small dance, bubbles 
clinging to old glaze.
They surface then pop 
into being thin air,
soon gone. 
 
In this smooth bowl
with my own two hands
I carry water to the Dawn
Redwood below the spring
for sharing information.
The tree and I stand
with light alone.