NATURE Poem: HOME CAMP CREEK, by Stephen Barile

A thousand giant red Ponderosa trees,
Jeffery pine, Douglas fir, Incense cedar
on the hillside of the Sierra lake
hold up the depthless sky.

When the air refuses to move,
it becomes hot in the forest shade.
Heat arouses circling flies,
mosquitos’ hover in dark places
for the promise of a meal
when the temperature is right
and cool enough.

The creek is fixed
of dense white-granite.
Snowmelt in the furious race
at the speed of gravity;
large foaming droplets
flying through the air.

Water shatters on the rocks
filling the sandy pools
for fingerling trout.
Running water overtops the bank.

Manzanita and Madrone flourish
In constant wetness.

Standing next to Home Camp Creek,
The stream is golden in midday sun.

The piss-ants swerve over speckled
plutonic rock on the fringe,
black water plunges over
a fallen tree across the creek.

I think I hear my father
over the rush of creek water.
His unmistakable cough,
hidden, yet recognizable.
The moss on the trees
are the ruts in his face,
lines around his green-eyed,
sad expression is there.

Flexing her black wings
in showers of mist on the wet rock,
the butterfly sails across
fluttering up the gorge, the stream.
No need of a bridge or trail.

Cutleaf daisies grow in a patch
of dirt and sand,
in the haphazard place of stone.