i came into your livingroom
the other day along a path
soft pines sweet green, small all around
their parents in the air.

four brown bottles, scattered, safe beneath a tree?
the high ground leads due east, a trail,
a stream that drains an open beaver pond,
A beach where many come to drink.

Balance on a poplar felled with many teeth,
it is immoveable across the stream.
The other side is dry and free of brush,
an easy walk through trees towards 495.

the long thin path winds green along
the highway just outside its fence.
i’ve cleared some branches and it’s
easier for the deer to travel.

water droplets on pine needles
are a mouthful to slake heavy thirst.
no one from the road looks down
to see me move.

reaching the field that marks the turning point,
heading west into the woods, where swamp and stream
make wandering a challenge. the way is blocked,
too far to backtrack now?

ticks rise in brush that grows
throughout the wetland. open space is filled
with muck that overflows the beaver dams;
trickling, muddy, rich, wide

the path returns full circle to the bottle tree,
and then winds back home.
it would have been better to retrace my steps
along the thin green path, than jump that muddy ground.