Your inclination to grab the camera
phone is automatic,
it’s absence infuses the moment
with the rush of water over sculpted stone,
days of rain have caused an impoundment 
back beyond the curve of stream
to produce this pounding energy
of a little Niagra;
your two dogs, busy with deer skeleton,
are interested only in their primordial gnaw
for old marrow and have no interest
in your haphazard path;
at the approach of dusk
you walk the steep angle of Sled Hill
and coyotes begin a magical union of howl,
as their choir fades a lone goose
flys close overhead honking frantically
for its long gone gaggle;
you look up, draw 
no conclusion from the indefinite sky
no lesson for your briefcase life.

the imprints of your mud-caked boots
will be all that’s left of you here,
their message will be read by beings
not familiar to you but will be cawed out
for all the world to know