by Kate Sorbara

Arrive from the city tired and hurt.
Lie on the grey granite
among jack pines and bird talk.
Overhead, long maple arms sway above
the churn of the river. So many shades of green,
the ghostly grey teal of distant spruce,
lime algae floating on backwater pools,
sturdy crowds of dark green bracken.
The heron flies back and forth
hawks circle and circle and by nightfall
you almost forget. The defense rests.
Dinner by the river with wood smoke.
The last light in the west that says “goodnight dear”.
Owls and crickets chant. The night sky appears,
with a million stars.

— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 1