print previewback ERIN LAMBERT HARTMAN
By You
among the rocks at Lewis Falls, a rhododendron hangs from a crag;
the changing signature of the stream turns from timber to laurel
branches; I am no less with this oak than I am with the quick shadow
of a crow across my legs, or these leaf patterns of shade; no less with
the glad aura of ailanthus than the sturdy joy of pine, the sparrow
that holds sight of me or the purpose of its gaze; no more surprised by
two hikers and their German salutations, my English muffled by the thickness
of forest and the falls, than I am surprised by the crow’s caw,
the spondees of a woodpecker drilling a distant tree; no more alone
with the urgent cadence of water against stone than alone with its stillness
spread out along the shore, among the rocks at Lewis Falls. 
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