Rethinking the Headwaters

it was a long steep upward slog

crossing the old wobbly wooden bridge

sagging above the white rushing river

that twists into half the border

of this rundown new england town

to catch the trailhead to climb

the nameless mountain

that did nothing but watch

our world slowly decay and fall apart

determined as i was to crest over its top

perhaps to never come down

late in the afternoon near the end

of the ascent i found myself

with an unquenchable thirst

lost and disoriented and surrounded

by the near and distant sounds of water

trickles and drips from the last

of winter's snow melting over

shiny green stones collecting

into narrow basins slipping over

the soft edges of shallow pools

flowing into rivulets into rills into ringing

rushing streams descending

with their songs between

sharp faults of granite and gneiss

through coarse jagged gullies

of schist carved in the tree-covered slopes

i can’t remember how long

i stood there shaking

winded and laughing

at the joke

with the waters

from each delicate brook

from each careless stream

from every wet crevice

and dripping seam

laughing back

what a joke

i knew then that i could

hang at the summit alone

for the rest of my journey

until the end of my days

and that somehow

with a smile on my face

i could take the first step

on a different path round

and make my way home