Higher Order of Being
Blurred hoofprints in the mud here
suggest something drank recently from the brook:
I think a deer.
Quenched thirst is immediate, like daily bread.
The sound of water drew a deer
unlikely to consider it the answer to a prayer;
unable to number
seven waterfalls far down the gorge, or identify
a lake at the outlet—
and what small brain in such a narrow cranium
even dreams that “all waters flow
toward the one sea, yet the sea is never filled”?
I was born to find
the moment beautiful—but then Preacher put
eternity into my head.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
Amethyst Review 