walking the trails of Rockwood
I shake hair from a tight queue
while a tickling breeze sweeps
away the last of March’s slushriver

beaver are busy building
shady log cabin nurseries
with crystal mirrored pools
where glinting mallards preen

while resting on a mossy bank
toes dipped in chilly ripples
orange monarchs sip bunchberry
olive pike hunt in stony shallows

river life’s paroled from winter
my back leaning on a cedar
I’m washed in woodsy, balsamic scents
of Eramosa’s spring hope chest

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