Tree branches, blue sky

reflected in melting ice —  

winter hieroglyphics.

Fractal patterns,

webs of connection,

forest’s neurons awake.

Branches stretching out

over cold morning waves

sunlight glints on stones.

Bluebells in spring,

spring into life,

forest wakes in mute beauty.

Reeds stand sentinel,

green and straight against a wavy background —

one moment in a changing world.

Cormorant on a stump,

its shadowy image

echoed in still water —

listening, watching, waiting for a sign.

Wildflowers nestling

by a fallen fence — sweet colour

on this spring morning.

Tilting its delicate head

the morning glory listens

to the world’s song . . . and silence.

Tree-shapes sheltering

this quiet forest clearing —

a splash of sunlight.

Sparkling light in the darkness

shower of stars

fallen

down to earth.

Dewdrops on a leaf,

red, yellow, dark purple

expanded moments, radiant.

Profusion of golden leaves

reflections in the stream —

The world is a narrow bridge

we need to cross.

(Note: italicized words from Rabbi Nachman of Bratslav)

The saint of the lake sits high in a sequoia

that grows from an ait kissed by mild waves.

Alone yet expansive, the art of silence

presses the holy woman’s heart between two ferns,

releasing notes of dried clover, cornflower, and marigold.

Rain begins and the saint stirs, prays and praises

the blesséd cover of a thick branch overhead,

its tough bark more waterproof than a nimbus.

Though distance obscures the hermit’s face,

one brown palm is visible against the green.

Cupping the rainfall has awakened her birthing sense,

and she is listening to the tadpoles’ legs emerging,

the fox lining her den with leaves for the coming kits,

and the egg-teeth of baby finches tapping their shells into openness,

their long embryonic wait almost at an end.

When the creased cup of the saint’s hand overflows,

she empties its reservoir with a dancing turn of the wrist.

Backing closer to the tree’s broad column,

she gathers heels into the thighs’ shelter

and circles warm knees with her arms.

Breathing into the curled nest of a compassionate self,

she sleeps in Love, heartbeats lapping in sync

with the lake’s gentle rhymes deep below.

Just behind Cedar Ridge Creative Centre, a steep switchback trail leads me to the west bank of Highland Creek, where tall grasses sway beside a sandy bank with cheerful stones below. As I continue along the narrow path beside the bank, I stop to photograph an elegant monarch butterfly before moving into deeper tree cover beyond.

I soon come to a tributary of the stream that is flowing much more slowly. Thanks to its shallowness, I can cross by hopping on the most stable stones. As I pause on the series of stepping-stones to survey the next viable perch, I experience moments of flowing water, such as a chartreuse leaf bathing in the stillness.

Although sunlight struggles to filter through the thick canopy, the very steep bank offers a vision of hopefulness in grasses that are beginning their rooted stance, a scrap of sky above, and more tree leaves arching over the negative space. I have the sense of inhabiting a cut-out furrow or deep groove in an earthy canyon, transforming me into a creature who has been given the option of crawling up and out from a den.

And I do just that, scrambling up the bank with the steadying aid of roots and branches for balance. I emerge onto the manicured openness of Scarborough Golf Club, owner of the footbridge I had glimpsed in a clearing on a previous walk. After I observe a few treasures of the golf course, including a short boardwalk in a marshy area, a group of four irises, and an apiary, I return to the creek’s edge. Then I retrace my steps to the departure point of my hike on this lambent June afternoon.