Lost Field Notes - Keeping The Count of Living Things

Red-tailed hawk on the fence post, Seven a.m., light still thin, Tracks in the mud by the culvert Tell me what passed through when. Maple leaves curled from the frost line, Lichen holding to stone, Everything’s busy surviving Even when it’s alone. I don’t name things to own them, I write them down to remember, What grows where the water slows, What holds through wind and weather. If I leave no mark but the record, That’s enough of a claim… Just keeping the count of living things That don’t care about my name. Milkweed split at the roadside, Pods already let go, Goldfinch pulling the soft white threads For somewhere warm to go. Yarrow by the old footbridge, Bent but not yet dead, Marked it twice in the notebook So I know where it spread. I don’t name things to own them, I write them down to remember, What takes root in shallow ground, What waits out cold Decembers. If I leave no mark but the record, That’s enough of a claim… Just keeping the count of living things That don’t care about my name. Checked the creek for salamanders, Turned the stones back when I was done, Not everything wants my witness, Some things just want the sun. Found foxglove near the clear-cut, First year coming through, Means the soil’s still finding balance After what we do. I learned early not to hurry What the season’s setting right, Most work happens quietly And doesn’t ask for sight. I don’t name things to own them, I write them down to stay aware, Of what returns when given time, And what disappears. If I leave no mark but the record, And walk back out the same… I’m just keeping the count of living things That don’t care about my name.