a mo[u]rning poem

Moving slowly, my body still carrying the stiffness of early morning,

I weave my way up the steep mountain like a shuttle crossing back and forth across a great green loom. 

The grass, tall and heavy from the rain, crowds the narrow path, soaking my pants. 

Up ahead, my dog stops to wait for me.

Her face, streaked dark with moisture, curiously asks which way we’ll go. 

We stop at a place where two netleaf oaks stand side by side.  

I call them the twins, and come often to sit under the shade of their branches,

Or to rest my back against the larger one’s trunk. 

I find a small piece of earth, free of rocks, to sit,

The dark soil cool and wet beneath me.

Lighting a stick of incense, I think of Ryokan. 

The songs of cicadas, in a rhythmic hum, nearly drown out the noise from the waking pueblo below. 

Roosters crowing. Tuk tuks beginning their repetitive climb up and down the single road.

Smoke rises in many dispersed columns from amidst the cement block homes as the women begin the day by making tortillas. 

A sudden flash of loneliness and longing arises and passes away,

Leaving only a deep sense of freedom.

This I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Sitting together quietly, me and my dog, where else is there to be but here?