Lost Field Notes - The Places Between

There’s an old culvert south of Galloway Road Half hidden under blackberry cane Water still moves through it after storms Though most folks forgot its name Found fresh deer tracks in the soft clay bank Beside prints from a wandering dog Somewhere uphill a woodpecker worked At a snag softened by rot The goldenrod’s already leaning brown Summer giving way by degrees Nothing ever seems to leave all at once It just changes quietly I write down where the creek bends east Where the herons like to stand Where foxes cross in the first thin snow And where floods redraw the land If all I leave is a notebook page Filled with weather, tracks, and wood That seems like reason enough to me To have noticed while I could And the places between will keep becoming Whether I return or not There’s a patch of jewelweed near the bridge That comes back year after year Growing where the bank collapsed one spring When the water got too fierce The sycamore still holds that scar Twenty feet above the stream A reminder of how high the water climbed Back when I was seventeen Funny how a place can keep a record Without writing anything down Just rings in wood and stones moved over And roots reaching deeper underground I write down where the creek bends east Where the herons like to stand Where foxes cross in the first thin snow And where floods redraw the land If all I leave is a notebook page Filled with weather, tracks, and wood That seems like reason enough to me To have noticed while I could And the places between will keep becoming Whether I return or not The trail behind the old quarry pond Is nearly gone beneath the leaves But if you walk it slow enough The hillside still reveals Where someone stacked stones long ago And where wild mint follows rain Most things don’t disappear completely They just stop being explained A rabbit burst from the sumac brush And startled me more than I’ll admit We both froze for a second there Trying to make sense of it Then it went back to being a rabbit And I went back to being me Standing in a world that carries on Perfectly without either of us leading I write down where the creek bends east Where the herons like to stand Where foxes cross in the first thin snow And where floods redraw the land If all I leave is a notebook page Filled with weather, tracks, and wood That seems like reason enough to me To have noticed while I could And the places between will keep becoming Whether I return or not So I walk slow through the afternoon…