A Cousin to the Sycamore

When I travel by canoe, by bicycle, by crutch,

by foot or by wheelchair

I am part of this wide world

 

I am in and of and with the earth and

the earth with me.

 

I am a cousin to that sycamore

over yonder, at the river's edge

and part of that titmouse

dancing in her branches

I am part of that simpering stream that

empties into the river and

that ancient turtle

slipping beneath her rolling waters

 

I am part of those jackrabbits scattering from

them blackberry brambles

where that mockingbird sat

just minutes ago

before she flew away towards that stream

of which I am a part

 

We sometimes speak of "the Environment"

as if it were this

Thing

separate and apart from us

and us from it

but we're not

At least not until we choose to be so

I Hesitate to Bring This Up...

At the confluence of the Beargrass and the Ohio

where a wild winter wind

blows the leaves back up the oak tree

where the mallard and his mate huddle

beneath a fallen sycamore

where eddies swirl and dark waves

kiss the shore goodbye

There are no addresses.

No street numbers to be marked on a map

and kept in a file cabinet at city hall

with a corresponding Owner’s name

Because there are no Owners.

There are no claimants on the water

as it rolls from creek to river to ocean

and back again.

And it surprised me today

as I thought about it

That no one had ever bought the Ohio outright.

 

Yet.